


My Heart is a Contract (But I Didn’t Sign)

by Sperare



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Fingering, Butt Plugs, Canes, Feathers & Featherplay, Gags, Ice Play, Kidnapping, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Bondage, Psychological Trauma, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:17:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2080005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sperare/pseuds/Sperare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles. He's perfect, and why hadn’t Erik executed this plan earlier? This is far preferable to the messes he’s had before. He’ll dote on Charles, spoil him, and there will be no worry that Charles will steal his secrets, leave him—do any of the disagreeable things he’s had to worry about previously from other lovers. Charles will be his, trained exactly to Erik’s preferences, and he will be the better for it. Once Charles learns to listen, he can have anything he wants—anything within Erik's reach... and, as the mob boss who all-but rules Genosha, that’s a considerable reach indeed.</p><p>But, first, Charles has to <i>learn</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not kidding with those tags. The only one that is even kind of questionable is the "underage": Charles is seventeen in this, so in a lot of places he's over the age of consent, but that's kind of irrelevant, since, uh, he's really not consenting. At all. You've been warned.
> 
> This is written for the kink meme prompt: "For the prompt: Mob boss Erik is ushered into the private room of his club where everything is waiting for him. In the chair is the twinkie he purchased yesterday, the one who tried to run, with his ankles tied to the chair arms and his wrists tied up and over his head so he's stretched and vulnerable, his exposed hole visibly plugged and red lips around a bit gag, and pumped full of drugs that make his cock flush against his stomach.
> 
> On the table, for Charles to see, are the toys awaiting Erik's perusal. A bucket of ice, a bamboo switch, clamps, weights, a long feather. Tools to impress on Charles, to make sure he knows who he belongs to."
> 
> I'm cleaning the fill up and posting it here, part by part (as I get it edited--it's slow going since I'm working on other stuff). Additionally, I haven't finished the last part, so I'll post that here at the same time that I post it on the kink meme.

There’s nothing quite like shooting someone in the face to get the blood pumping—in more ways than one. The second sense can prove a little messy, though, and lowering himself to cleaning up afterward is… hmm, distasteful, to say the least. Acceptable when he was working his way up the ranks, but for a man who now owns half the city, well…  
  
He has people for that.  
  
Sighing, Erik kicks back in his chair, crossing his ankles on top of the coffee table, and—oh, why not? Might as well complete the image—threads his hands and settles them over his stomach. Having underlings to carry out his wishes is generally a source of satisfaction, but, on occasion—and this is one such occasion—the people under him can be so damn _incompetent_.  
  
It’s true what they say: if you want something done right, you need to do it yourself.  
  
And, sometimes—only on occasion, mind—it can be pleasant to remind oneself of the satisfaction derived from personally taking care of something so primal. It’s that kind of thinking that accounts for the dead body on the opposite sofa, hole blown through the forehead, and brains smattered across the sheetrock. A good shot, if he does say so himself. Nice to know that he isn’t getting rusty.  
  
“When I asked you to detain an seventeen-year-old college student who has probably never touched a gun in his life, I did _not_ think it would be an insurmountable task,” he says to the cowering man who remains, rooted to the sofa, trying pathetically hard not to look at his dead companion. That must be something of a challenge, considering he’s splattered with the dead man’s blood. “Apparently, I was wrong.”  
  
“Sir—“  
  
Erik holds up a hand, cutting him off. There’s no sense in listening to a dead man’s babbling… or what will soon be a dead man, the moment Erik manages to wring out the salient points of what went wrong tonight. Mistakes are forgivable: he’s not a complete monster. But this— _this_ level of incompetence…  
  
There’s no place for it in his organization. He didn’t get to the top by nurturing ineptitude.   
  
“Let’s go over the details again,” he says, curving his mouth up into a smile that someone once told him resembled that of a shark. Said someone shortly thereafter met with an unfortunate accident—though the comparison to a predator is actually one that he finds personally favorable, it hadn’t been meant that way, and such things simply can’t be allowed to stand. “Kurt Marko has, as of late, made some rather unfortunate business decisions, and, in a truly appalling display of bad sense, came to me for a rather large loan—which he now cannot repay. Marko is, at the moment, barely staying afloat at all, and only thanks to the monthly allowance left to his stepson by his late father, Brian Xavier. Regrettably for Marko, Xavier is a month from turning eighteen, at which point the monthly allowances stop, and Charles Xavier gets full control of his trust fund. Are you following me so far?”  
  
The man nods dumbly.   
  
That’s something, anyway: in a show of encouragement, Erik thumbs on the gun’s safety and sets it aside on the coffee table. He won’t be needing it for another few minutes at least.

“Luckily for Marko, Xavier is… an appealing boy.” To put it mildly. Eyes like that, and lips that would make a nun blush—Xavier is a wet dream come to life. Brilliant too, and, as the tail Erik put on him for the last few months has been able to determine, sweet-natured, though with enough of a bite to keep things interesting. “Quite a lucky turn for Marko, that he has something I want.” Thinning his lips down into a smirk, he reaches out for the glass of scotch on the side-table. It’s not precisely the dinner theatre, but he could do worse for entertainment than a couple of underlings practically shitting themselves in fear. Does good things for a man’s ego, to see that.  
  
“And, so, Marko and I came to an arrangement. He would give me his stepson, and I would cancel his debts. Xavier disappears, Sharon Xavier keeps control of her son’s accounts, and, by extension, Marko keeps control of the accounts—everyone is happy.” He takes a swallow of scotch. Good year, nice vintage. At least _someone_ he employs is competent, even if it’s only the person who gets him his alcohol. “You— _you_ only needed to collect Xavier and bring him to me. And I find—“ Drawing his finger over the rim of his glass, he looks up from under his eyelashes at the terrified man, who—ah, hasn’t entirely succeeded in keeping his eyes off the body next to him. Too bad. “I find that I am very… _curious_ as to why you failed to do as I asked.”  
  
The man’s hand shoots out, clamping down on the arm of the sofa. “We did—did _get_ him, Sir—“  
  
“Yes. For long enough to tell him what was happening, to _taunt_ him—and I cannot fathom what convinced you it would be a good idea to do that—and for him to kick out the right taillight of the trunk you put him into, and for someone to call the police when they saw him waving his hand. I can’t impress upon you fully enough exactly how lucky you are that you were in a rural area when you were pulled over. As it is, I am now burdened with the task of disposing of the bodies of a policeman and the farmer to whose house Xavier ran because you could not even manage the foresight of shooting the cop _before_ he fished Xavier out of the trunk.” Erik’s breathing has escalated. So much for detachment—but anger can be good too. Anger can _inspire_ , and, with what he has planned downstairs when he’s done here, a little inspiration is just what he needs. “You see, then, why I am so very displeased with your performance.”  
  
Nodding numbly, the man swallows down what looks to be a lump of spit and does his best to gurgle out some sorry excuse for an explanation. “Yes—“  
  
“No.” The gun all but jumps into his fingers when he reaches for it, clicking off the safety again and lazily pointing it in the man’s direction. “What I _want_ you to say is, ‘Mr. Lehnsherr…’” He gestures with the gun. “Well, go on.”  
  
“M-Mr. Lehnsherr.”  
  
“Very good.” This is why all the best negotiations in history have been done with firearms: so efficient. “Now, keep it up. Say, ‘I have been utterly inept at my job.”  
  
“I-I have b-been utt-t-t-erly inept at my j-job.”  
  
“I do not deserve a second chance.”  
  
“I don’t—don’t deserve another chance.”  
  
Not verbatim, but it’ll do. And at least they’re in agreement. “And I am very sorry.”  
  
“And I am v-very sor-sorry.”  
  
This time the bullet goes through the man’s head slightly to the right, taking out his eye. Damn. There’s very little more annoying than a lack of symmetry. Though, the two dead men do paint a bizarrely appealing picture, slumped side by side. Both in their mid-thirties, dark hair, not bad looking, though nothing special. Symmetry enough for now, then.

“Not nearly as sorry as I am,” he tells the body lazily, setting the gun aside and getting to his feet. “And certainly not as sorry as you’d have been had Xavier not been recovered.”   
  
Also probably not as sorry as Xavier is going to be that he tried to run in the first place.  
  
Yes: how to deal with Xavier.  
  
Quite a conundrum, that: in this line of work, there’s not much to be had in the way of intimacy. Very few potential dates would be so understanding as to accept his profession. And, those that do—they’re cold, icy, would probably enjoy shooting him as much as being fucked by him. None of them suit his tastes, not when all the things that make them suitable also makes sex frighteningly like looking in the mirror and seeing himself in the person under him. If he pushes Xavier too hard, is that what he’ll turn into?  
  
But… no. He’s picked Xavier specifically for that reason: he’s incapable of any of those things.   
  
Snorting—so stupid of him to worry at all—he moves across the room to throw open the door and beckon to the cleaning crew waiting on the other side. Thankfully they’re early enough to get this mess before it can congeal: brain matter on the pillows is not to his taste.  
  
His tastes. Yes, _those_. Emma Frost would have a field day laughing at him if she knew—and there’s probably a reason that, despite being his longest-lasting relationship, their affair had ended in a shoot-out; a stolen shipment of drugs; and, somehow, an arrangement where she’s still what passes for his closest friend.   
  
And, as his closet friend, she’d very gleefully inform him that, for a mob boss, a preference for sweet-natured innocence isn’t likely to end well.  
  
Thank god, then, that Xavier is not innocent by most standards. The tail had turned back a report on a number of one-night stands. But… all very vanilla—and all very _female_. And, when he wasn’t sleeping around, Charles Xavier was prone to the sort of idealism that comes from seeing a level of good in humanity that doesn’t actually exist. Poor dear was bound to be disappointed sometime—better that it be at the hands of someone who intends to pick the pieces up afterward. Really, the world only would have used Xavier and cast him aside.  
  
He’s practically doing Xavier a favor, intending to do only the first of those things.  
  
“Appreciated as always,” he says, nodding to the first of the five men who enters the room. “Don’t worry if you can’t get it all out of the upholstery: I was due to make a charity donation soon anyway.”  
  
The man grins in reply—always nice to see a man who appreciates his job—and, with one final nod, Erik closes the door and makes his way down the hallway, heading for the elevator. Despite a fairly busy day downstairs—it never fails to be a source of amusement that he makes almost as much money off his _legal_ business as he does off his _illegal_ one—the elevator comes quickly when he calls it, and, before long, he’s nestled inside, pushing the button for the lowest level.   
  
Finally— _finally_ —he lets a bit of raw anticipation soak up into his spine.   
  
Charles Xavier. It’s understandable that the boy tried to run, especially given the disgusting way those two slugs explained things to him. Fear will make a person do unwise things—such as running from a man who all-but owns the city. But, fear or not, running is simply not acceptable. He needs to be able to trust Charles to behave, to accompany Erik to meetings and parties, to sleep beside him at night, and if he’s constantly a flight risk, that just won’t do. It’s merely a matter of crossed wires, a lack of understanding of the… _consequences,_ as it were: Xavier will undoubtedly hate him at first, but a little patience and a good amount of effort will get the desired result.   
  
Good things are, after all, usually worth working for. 

Undoing the button on his suit jacket, he glances around the elevator, taking in his own image as it’s reflected back at him by the glass panels. At thirty-two, he’s lost the cushioned edges of youth, filling out into the sort of man that makes others quake both when he frowns _and_ when he smiles.   
  
Thankfully, Charles Xavier is everything he’s not.   
  
It had taken a good few months to determine Xavier would be the right fit. It wouldn’t do to have been hasty, after all: no point in wasting time on someone, just to toss him aside a few months later. Good to know that, in this case, there’s no chance of that. He shifts against the elevator rail, pants suddenly a little too tight. The things that boy is already doing to him… Think how good it will be when Xavier’s learned just how beneficial this arrangement is for _him_ as well—and it _will_ be beneficial. Letting Marko keep all that money was never part of the plan, but it’s clear that _Marko_ always thought it was, regardless of what he had to do to get his stepson out of the way.  
  
Disgusting bastard. Morality may not be Erik’s point of lecture, but even _he_ doesn’t kill those as blameless as Charles. Revolting, just to think of it, and for Marko—a gunshot? No: a knife will do the trick nicely. More personal that way, feeling every last gasp and twitch. It might be worth it to make Charles watch—but, no. Tempting, but Charles isn’t to be so intimately involved. Oh, he’ll witness killings at some point, no way around that, but best to keep it impersonal, no knowledge of the people involved, where he can turn on Erik’s lap—and of course that’s where he’ll be seated—and bury his face in Erik’s neck through the worst of it. Better that way.   
  
It’s something to think on, and, contrary to habit, Erik feels a genuine smile creeping up his face. Charles. Perfect, and why hadn’t he executed this plan earlier? This is far preferable to the messes he’s had before. He’ll dote on Charles, spoil him—maybe the chance to go to school?—and there will be no worry that Charles will steal his secrets, leave him—do any of the disagreeable things he’s had to worry about previously from other lovers. Charles will be _his_ , trained exactly to Erik’s preferences, and he will be the better for it. Once Charles learns to listen, he can have anything he wants—anything within the reach of Genosha’s king... and that’s a considerable reach.  
  
But… first, Charles needs to learn. No more running. That spirit of his may be entertaining, but—oh, and there’s that little spark of anger, the tinder that’s been waiting in his chest ever since he first heard that Charles tried to run. Charles, Charles, Charles, foolish boy—he hadn’t though it out, surely. No one runs from Erik. But, no matter: no harm done. It will be an educational opportunity: Charles will learn this lesson now, and he will understand it thoroughly.  
  
Charles Xavier is _his_ , and it’s time to make sure Charles knows _exactly_ what that means.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time the elevator has hit the lowest floor and opened its doors, Erik has pulled his composure firmly back into place, shoring it up with a good dose of business sense and self-preservation. It wouldn’t do to forget that while there are a number of people in this place who are willing to spend a very large sum of money on what he’s selling, many of them would also delight in seeing his blood spilled. Six o’clock at the bar looks the type: probably a good idea to get Azazel on that, once he’s relieved him of his… other duty, as it were.  
  
Ten years ago, if anyone had told him that he’d be running a very elite strip club, he’d have laughed in their face. If they’d told him he’d have an even more elite venue in the basement below, he might have been slightly more willing to listen.  
  
As much as it’s a cliché to run a place like this, there really is no better spot to scope out men’s character. And blackmail—practically the definition of necessity. Pretty damn satisfying, too, when people are so ridiculously gullible. They’re just asking to be used, when they show up to _talk_ and somehow end up knocking back a few drinks, then sauntering into a back room. Doesn’t take much to push them into a situation that could sully their reputation—and _then_ they have the audacity to be shocked when he comes to them for a “favor”? No, no, no—too late for that, when they’ve already gone miles past stupidity. They ought to be _thanking_ him for giving them the chance to ensure that footage of their misdemeanors and trysts never sees the light of day.  
  
Turns out wives don’t like that sort of thing. And neither does the public.  
  
No blackmail tonight, though—but something even better. It’s already forming in his mind as he moves across the room, memorizing faces—and taking names, as the saying goes. But, despite how busy it was upstairs earlier in the evening, by this point the lower level is relatively cleared out. There hadn’t been any meetings tonight anyway—he’d made sure of that. It would have been unacceptable to be distracted: Charles deserves his full attention—and not only deserves, but _needs._  
  
Strolling over to the bar and signaling Janos for a drink—might as well have one before heading in, since this doesn’t promise to be an easy night—he lets his eyes linger over the doorway leading to the hall that connects to the back rooms. No misguided politicians and shady business owners there tonight. The rooms themselves are soundproofed, but it’s the principle of the thing: there’s just no atmosphere in knowing that there’s an aging politician next door doing his best to get up an erection with a girl half his age… and probably failing, poor bastard. Sometimes that’s the best blackmail of all.  
  
Hmm. Perhaps he’ll tell Charles that once he’s more… amenable. _You saved a corrupt public figure from being blackmailed, darling. Be proud._  
  
Seems like the sort of thing that ought to be funny. Though, Charles might not find humorous.  
  
Charles. The thought alone— _mmhmm_ … not even in the room yet with the boy, and already his pulse is jumping as he accepts a drink from Janos and takes a sip, crossing his ankles and properly leaning back against the bar. Charles. A nice name, for a nice boy. A nice boy with fire. The perfect kind. The perfect companion.  
  
Companion—because this was never meant to be a relationship in the conventional fashion.  
  
No, “companion” suits the situation far better—in a sense, anyway. Charles will do as he says, no negotiation, no questions. But… that beautiful man, spread out under him, and with those _eyes_ —anyone with any brains would know there’s no sense in treating him badly. Do something so utterly foolish? No. Ownership is about _care_ , and let it never be said that Erik Lehnsherr doesn’t care for his possessions. Charles will be no different. He’ll be cosseted, he’ll be indulged—he’ll have everything he needs—but he _will_ obey.  
  
A quick glance at the wall offers the time: ten minutes to one. Charles will have been waiting for upwards of three hours now. That’s plenty of time to kick things off nicely, and—this man next to him really is very tiresome and needs to be eliminated. No doubt what he’s after at this point—not when there’s a gun very bad concealed inside his waistcoat. Azazel will be happy to take care of it: perhaps it’s time to go relieve him of his current duties and let him take this up instead.  
  
They’ll switch. Much more pleasant that way.  
  
With a quick signal to Janos, he knocks back the rest of his drink, sets the glass down on the bar, and carefully unfurls himself. It will _never_ get old, the way every eye in the room pivots toward him, locking in on his movement as he crosses the room, heading for the back hallway. Let them think, let them _wonder_ what he’s doing, who he’s about to destroy, and then let them worry that they’ll be _next_.  
  
The door opens on well-oiled hinges—nothing but the best—and he slips into the well-lit corridor, relaxing. He always takes care in public to ensure that any tension isn’t obvious, but when the door clicks shut and blocks the low buzz of voices from the room behind, his shoulders relax and drop, and his gate turns smoother, more at ease.  
  
Tonight might not promise to be an _easy_ night, but it does promise to be worthwhile.  
  
The room of choice—and he’d been very specific with his instructions to Azazel—is at the back of the corridor. Number Eight. No special reason for that—superstition is useless—beyond the fact that there are eight rooms. But the number is attractive, catching his eye: curved, like the lines of a rope. Yes. A _rope_.  
  
Charles will be tied up. Securely—Azazel knows his way around a rope—and by now he’ll probably be quite uncomfortable. That’s half the point. Most of the point, even.  
  
“Evening, Azazel,” he greets politely, acknowledging the man seated in a chair in front of the door. It would have been simple enough, locking Charles in and leaving him alone, but for a matter of this importance, a kind of thoroughness is required that, in other circumstances, might not otherwise be necessary. And so… Azazel. “Everything in order?”  
  
Azazel grins, stripping back the boredom and leaving a predatory spark in its wake. “ _Da_. But I do not think the little one likes it quite so much as we do.”  
  
“Not cooperative?” As if he would be. That’s the crux of Charles’ charm—all that spirit, Erik’s, turned to his own purposes.  
  
“He has a set of claws, your kitten.”  
  
“You didn’t need to hurt him, did you?”  
  
“He may have claws, but he does not know how to use them.”  
  
Well, no good reason Charles would have been taught to fight. Thus far, he’s lived, not a sheltered life—Kurt Marko is an ass, and a cruel one—but not the kind of existence that would have accustomed Charles to fighting back against physical confrontation with his fists. Charles’ war is one better fought with words.  
  
“Good. And how has he been since you got him set up?”  
  
That smile splits wider, and Azazel tips back in his chair, knocking the frame into the wall. “The first hour he was very loud. But he is quieter now. I think I heard him crying.”  
  
Which is why it’s always a good idea to let a person stew in the promise of the future. Resistance breaks down so easily under the pressure of a person’s fear. “Very good. There’s another job for you tonight: Janos can give you details.”  
  
“More along the usual lines, _da_?”  
  
Oh, certainly. It’s not as though he frequently asks Azazel to kidnap young men—and never before for this purpose. Once or twice he’s collected a pretty young thing for a one-night stand, but never with the intent of breaking them and keeping them long-term. And thank goodness Azazel isn’t usually needed to come clean up the messes of his inferiors. Honestly, a teenage boy getting the better of the men that had been sent to collect him. Disgraceful.  
  
“Yes. Get some practice on your knife work.”  
  
“Always a pleasure.”  
  
It’s a genuine joy, witnessing a man who takes such satisfaction from his work—and Azazel’s knife work _is_ fantastic. Damn well inspiring, it is.  
  
Giving Azazel one last nod—and seeing it returned with a toothy smile that pushes the boundaries of a leer—he cuts the conversation. Time for things… of a more _personal_ nature.  
  
The doorknob turns easily under his hand—but—just another moment to savor the anticipation; it’s the best part—and he pushes forward, slipping through the door and closing it behind him.  
  
Oh, _yes_.  
  
This—fuck, _this_ is what he wanted—and what a spectacular job Azazel has done. He _will_ be getting a raise. And Marko—he’s a fool, having this under his roof and trading it away. He could have paid his debts by lending out this alone—but—ah, jealousy, merely at the thought. How perfect. As if there were ever any question that this is the correct choice—but, _oh_ , what a perfect little delight Charles Xavier is, and it’s soothing, to have jealousy confirm the rightness of this.  
  
It might seem cruel, to those who don’t understand, to see Charles tied up so creatively. But what they wouldn’t see is that it’s more merciful to teach him this lesson now, lest he fail any test he’s given later and find himself in a far worse bind, as it were.  
  
Rather than giving young Xavier the courtesy of a seat, Azazel has instead slipped a pair of handcuffs onto those surprisingly sturdy wrists, looping a rope through the chain and running it over a hook in the ceiling. There’s a certain fancy to imagining that the hook was installed just for Charles, but—well, can’t have everything. So, no, Charles isn’t the first to be suspended from the ceiling, as evidenced by the wear to the steel hook in the wall off to the side, where Azazel has tied the end of the rope with a good, solid knot. Nothing quite like a pulley system to get the job done. It’s a classic.  
  
And darling Charles himself, suspended from the ceiling—and later he might realize just how much mercy he’s been given. If this were an interrogation—impossible not to inwardly chuckle, just a little, at how much worse it would be. Definitely, there would be no chair conveniently under his feet. It’s a bare-frame chair, no padding at all, but only a hard metal seat and back, and curved silver arms. Very minimalistic—and the silver of the metal looks delicious next to Charles’s skin. The ropes too, wrapped around his ankles and binding him to the arms of the chair—gorgeous, enough to make a saint sin, the way he’s spread open for the taking. Too bad there’s already chaffing: the skin of Charles’ lower legs, bound as they are to the arms of the chair, has been rubbed red by what was probably at one time an impressive struggle.  
  
Now it’s merely sweet.  
  
Just from the look of him, it’s obvious that he’s tired himself out, his Charles. Poor thing—to think this is only the beginning. He’ll sleep for days after this, wrung out and tangled up in knots on the inside, though there won’t be much need to physically tie him down while he rests, if tonight goes as planned.  
  
To think, they have all of tonight to impart this lesson, if need be. A thought like that—hmm. Yes. The room isn’t hot, but—hot enough, hot to the point where he can take off his jacket, toss it casually onto a chair by the side of the door. Charles, Charles, Charles. If he didn’t know better, he’d say his blood is singing. Charles Xavier. What perfection.  
  
“Look. At. You.”  
  
And let it never be said he doesn’t take his own advice. Though, stupid—there’s no looking away from _this_. Those flushed cheeks, stained by the tracks of tears that have dribbled from Charles’ eyes, pupils blown so wide in the dimness of the room—probably trauma too—that there’s only the tiniest circle of blue ringing them. Plenty, for now: there will be more than enough time later to see Charles in the morning light when that blue will be far more prominent, and, ideally, not framed by puffy redness, either.  
  
And that _mouth_. That’s the kind of mouth that makes money. Look at those lips, wrapped around that bit. Such a good decision to make it a bit gag. Give him room to feel it out, to understand just what’s between his teeth—let him bite at it, tongue at it, and not stuff him so full—no ball gag this time—as to stop him from getting any sounds out. Just like his place at Erik’s side, he’ll need that bit of slack to test things out and feel his way around.  
  
It helps that the rings—small, wouldn’t want to dwarf his face—look stunning at the edges of his mouth.  
  
Oh—but Charles doesn’t _like_ that. It’s enough to make a man smile, that spitting slew of cursing that dribbles past the gag. Hmm, well. Let him try. He can twist against those handcuffs all night if he likes: he won’t be let down until he learns to mind, and, the sooner he does, the sooner this situation can progress to a place where Charles can enjoy things too.  
  
For now, though, he doesn’t have to like it. He only needs to be here, stretched out precisely as he is. Those dusky little nipples, pebbled in the chill of the air, and all that sinfully pale skin, dotted with freckles, touched up by a sparse dusting of hair on his abdomen—practically an invitation to reach out and touch, follow the direction of it down toward the nest of curls, and the delicious-looking cock nestled among them. Not overly large, but certainly nothing of which to be ashamed. Silky too, from the looks of it, and uncut. For now, he’ll leave it as it is, arching up to bump against Charles’ stomach. Good invention, those drugs—though it must have been a bitch getting the pills down his throat. Still, that _cock_ ….  
  
Worth it. Worth every bit of trouble.  
  
And who is he to refuse such a beautifully offered invitation? “Hello, darling,” he croons, stepping forward. Pretty, pretty Charles—he’ll deserve such careful handling, such _care_. Might as well roll up the sleeves—quite literally, one fold of fabric after the other, until both sit comfortably above his elbows—and dive in, allow himself the treat he’s long deserved.  
  
Damn good reward.  
  
“Pretty little thing, all for me, hmmm?”  
  
Oh, hell, that skin feels as good as it looks. Ghosting his hands over it, barely putting down pressure, and riding the dips and curves of Charles’ abdomen. There are no rippling muscles, but his stomach is nevertheless flat, the lean lines of an academic—not chiseled, not carved, but sweet and soft, and so welcoming. Whatever else Charles is, his body practically begs to be touched.  
  
Ah, but—Charles—he squirms, thrashing, screaming out a slew of insults that catch on the gag and tear into unintelligible scraps of noise. But he makes his point just fine: arching that sweetly curved back, bucking against the hand there, and driving his feet down onto the chair, scrambling to gain the leverage that has eluded him for the past three hours.  
  
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Not that he’ll be heeded, but that’s all right: it’s an excuse to smooth his hand around from where he’d laid it on fluttering stomach muscles and slip it to the small of Charles’ back, then lower, lower, withdrawing parts of his touch until it’s only one finger touching skin, tracing the bumps of vertebrae and occasionally tossing in a hint of nail, merely to tease.  
  
There’s simply no way to tamp down on his grin when the screams grow increasingly desperate and he has to actually dig his other hand in at Charles’ hip to stop him from throwing himself about every which-way and potentially doing some permanent damage. Scars can be lovely, but he’d prefer to paint them onto Charles’ skin himself. An accident simply won’t do.  
  
Lower, lower—ah, right _there_. And Azazel has done as he was instructed after all. It had been somewhat concerning, whether he would, and, if he did, if he’d be professional about it— _but_ … that is the last time anyone other than himself will touch Charles, and it was a necessary lesson. Azazel has proven himself trustworthy before; clearly it was a good decision to trust him this time too.  
  
“You don’t like this?” he asks, feigning surprise, and—delicious, watching him thrash—he takes a good hold of the plug snug up inside of Charles and _twists_.  
  
Looks like Charles is screaming for a different reason now. And _more tears_ —how delightful.  
  
“Oh, I think you _do_. Like it, that is. Or at least you _will_.”  
  
“No—no—“ It comes out garbled past the gag, but intelligible enough. An English accent. What a joy that’s going to be to listen to in bed, once they’ve gotten to the point where Charles’ mouth can be left free without fear of biting.  
  
“I don’t _like_ hearing ‘no,’ Charles.” Another twist, and then a sharp push, right where it’s most useful.  
  
Seems those anatomy classes he took in college weren’t a complete waste after all.  
  
The movement does the trick: Charles sobs against his gag, opening and closing his hands in their cuffs, and—oh, bless, curling his toes down into the metal of the chair in short little spasms until his nails whiten with the pressure. “That’s your prostate, darling boy, didn’t you know?”  
  
He’s shaking now, really quite overwrought. Hmm. Something to consider. But… there will be time enough for that later, to explore every last nerve ending and trigger point. For now, Charles needs a little gentling. He’ll never settle if he doesn’t know there’s anything to settle _into_.  
  
“Poor thing, drugged right up to the gills, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “It must hurt. Does it hurt, Charles?” As soothingly as he can manage—that’s something he’ll have to learn, for Charles, for when he needs it—he presses little circles into the small of Charles’ back, rubbing there, working him down. “Oh, it’s all right, I know, I know, _shhh_.”  
  
He doesn’t know, of course. _He_ has certainly never been tied to the ceiling and drugged, plugged up in both openings and tied with the intention of leaving him deliciously exposed to anyone who cares to walk up behind him. But that’s not for _him_ to experience: this is _Charles’_ place, and he’ll learn to love it eventually.  
  
Though it takes a few minutes, Charles does finally begin to calm. The thrashing stops, and—what’s he—what?— _oh_.  
  
Well, the table _was_ meant to get his attention.  
  
Breaking a man is actually rather simple, at the core of it. Lock him in a room with his own mind and leave him to stew, and the things he can think up for himself are far worse than reality often is. Add a few suggestions, and…  
  
Well.  
  
There’s a reason Charles’ eyes keep skittering over to the table at the front of the room.  
  
A bucket of ice and a bamboo switch, some clamps and weights, a feather—it would be enough to get most anyone’s imagination going. For someone tied to the ceiling and spread wide, drugged heavily, it must be positively inflammatory.  
  
“ _Good_ , darling. I’d hoped you’d notice.”  
  
Charles’ nostrils flare, and his gaze jumps back to Erik, wild and unfocused. When he sets to shaking his head, sputtering out denials that are obviously more frightened than angry now, it’s impossible not to smile at the sweetness of it. Anyhow, it would have been quite the feat if Charles _hadn’t_ noticed: the items had been purposely laid out, directly in his line of sight. Most likely, he’d already noticed them earlier during those three hours of solitude.  
  
But he’s only just now realizing that they’re meant for _him._  
  
“You’re mine, Charles,” he says, leaning in and—oh, all right, just a taste: he bites down onto the swell of Chares’ ass, smiling into the mouthful when he hears Charles’ yelp. Such theatrics: he hardly bit down enough to make a mark. “From now on, you’re mine, and those tools are to help you understand that. How do you think that’s going to feel? What would you like me to do first? Maybe this?” He tweaks one dusky nipple, free hand holding Charles through the thrashing that follows. “Or…” Sweeping that hand down, dragging his palm against the skin, he moves around to Charles’s backside, teasing lower until his finger slips into the cleft of Charles’ ass, nudging the plug again. “Maybe we’ll cool you down a bit, hmm?”  
  
Letting go of Charles, he steps around in front of him and, slowly, drawing out each step and letting Charles’ mind do the rest—fear will lengthen steps, speed them up, distort everything—he saunters up to the table. It’s not more than ten feet away from Charles, but the distance stretches out and makes for a good stage, Charles as his audience. What a show this will be: like that interactive art they sometimes do, for high-class people with money to blow. And none of it was ever as erotic as _this_.  
  
Scooping up the clamps and the bucket of ice, he turns and heads back to Charles, who—that’s interesting, he’s gone still, watching with wide eyes. Though, only momentarily: one leg twitches, jerking up, and the side of the chair lifts off the floor, slamming back down with a clatter when Charles straightens out his leg again.  
  
How often has he tried that in the last three hours? And there he goes again—both legs this time, pulling himself up as though he hopes he can yank the hook out of the ceiling with his weight. Predictable, the quick glance he throws upward. No chance of pulling the hook loose, though—it’s designed to be able to hold up to a ton. But let him try: it’s quite a show, watching his biceps contract and his fingers curl around the chain as he levers himself upward, hanging, body twirling slowly until he drops the chair back down again with a defeated rush of breath.  
  
“Done, then?” he asks Charles’ wryly.  
  
Charles pants around the gag, eyes fixed on Erik. But he does seem to be finished for the moment: his arms are shaking from the strain. _All_ of him is shaking, muscles spitting out sharp little bursts of frenetic motion.  
  
He’ll probably want another go in a few minutes—if he isn’t so wrung out by that point as to be incapable.  
  
“I’ll bet you’ve never played with these before, am I right?” he asks, holding up the clamps in his hand.  
  
If he were feeling kind, he’d use gentler clips to start Charles off with. Not these—but Charles will look so appealing, with the butterfly clamps, and knowing that he’ll be experiencing the height of sensation… Doing things halfway is a recipe for failure. He wouldn’t own half this city if he’d been half-assed in his dealings. Why shouldn’t the same be true of his interactions with Charles?  
  
Not surprisingly, Charles doesn’t provide an answer to his question, though his breath does come a little faster, snorting out in bursts. It’s nothing compared to the wideness of his eyes, stretched so far that the whites are visible. A lot like a spooked animal, really.  
  
“No?” One step closer, right up to Charles, who grimaces and looks away—not difficult when Erik’s eyes are on level with his nipples. But looking away—he’ll have to be broken of that—not with Erik, but with others. There are any number of men in Erik’s line of work who would take joy in staring down Erik Lehnsherr’s sweetheart, and Charles—what a sight it will be, to see his boy staring down trained killers.  
  
Yes, Charles will always look away in a staring contest with _him_ —but anyone else, he’ll learn better than to break eye contact, and it will be _spectacular_.  
  
“It’s a very intense feeling,” he murmurs, gliding his hand up Charles’ body to a nipple. One flick, nail to skin, has Charles squirming, crying out under the sensation, so he does it again, and then once more, sparing a look down toward Charles’ cock.  
  
Now _that’s_ more like it. Charles may object to this, but his body is quite amenable indeed: why, his cock is literally twitching with each flick to the nipple—and he flushes so prettily, nipple stiffening and reddening. So similar to painting a picture, the way the colors bloom over his skin. He’ll look fantastic with bruises.  
  
“Perhaps something to ease you into it, then.” Or to drive him mad, more like. Either way, there’s almost as much pleasure in raising the ice cube out of the bucket and watching Charles’ eyes track it, breath hitching as he does, as there is in actually applying it to the skin.  
  
 _Oh_ , and the way he _squeals_ when it’s pressed to his nipple—truly a sight to die for. Perhaps someday someone will. That’s a thought. Using Charles as a sort of honey trap: the face that launched a thousand ships, and though Genosha isn’t quite Greece, Charles _must_ be lovelier than Helen. There would undeniably be a certain poetic justice to shooting a rival precisely as they tried to take what is Erik’s.  
  
That thought will have to wait, though, since unfortunately the ice really is cold. Pity he didn’t bring his gloves. It would have let him draw this out indefinitely. Improvisation, though—he’s good at that. Has to be, in this line of work. So, undo his tie with his free hand, wrap it around his fingers, and switch the ice cube to that hand without ever moving it away from Charles’ skin.  
  
There, much better.  
  
And, by this point, Charles is sobbing. Great, heaving jerks that can’t all be from the cold. More likely they’re from the sheer overwhelming nature of the situation. If only he knew it’s going to get worse—and if Erik were generous, he’d say it, let Charles know, but it’s redundant, somehow: Charles _must_ know. Such a smart boy couldn’t have missed out on something so clear, no matter how much he probably wants to.  
  
“There, good,” he breathes out, half to himself, once the cube has melted entirely against Charles’ skin. “Try this, then.”  
  
At first, when he affixes the clamp to Charles’ nipple, nothing happens. Nothing worth noting as new, anyway. Charles shudders, but it’s lost among the rest of his shaking. Even adding the weight to it—not much, but enough to tug the nipple down, especially when Charles’ struggles and moves—doesn’t evoke a reaction, as numb as the flesh is from the cold.  
  
A more impatient man might switch course. And a more impatient man would be a fool.  
  
Leaning in, Erik covers both the nipple and the clamp with his mouth, breathing out heat over the chilled skin. And _that_ gets the sensation going. As the skin warms up, the feeling returns, blood rushing in as best as it can, and Charles tenses, squirming, all the motion centering on his chest: the rest of him twists around that one spot, limbs flopping as he tries in vain to shake the clamp free.  
  
Of course there was never any hope that he’d succeed. That was never the purpose of this. So much better to see him realize exactly what Erik is doing, poking the clamp with his tongue, torturing the flesh clipped inside of it. The taste of metal bursts over Erik’s taste buds, tempered by the living taste of Charles. He flicks the metal again and again, wiggling it with his tongue.  
  
“Staw—op—“  
  
The sound is muffled, but there’s not much question what he’s saying. Charles, Charles—silly boy. There’s no stopping this now. Soon he may not want to stop. Doesn’t much matter if he does. The sight of him is addictive.  
  
And to think, Charles has been absent from Erik’s entire life thus far. No witnessing this with regularity, no drinking in the sight of the flushed chest and watery eyes....  
  
Life has just gotten that much sweater. Flaunting Charles out during meetings, touching Charles with rivals watching—by having Charles, he’ll be the envy of every sexual being in the city. And having this in his bed, all the time, whenever he wants it. How could it possibly have taken him so longer to figure out how necessary this is?  
  
“I _did_ promise you a cool down, didn’t I?” he says a hint regretfully as he pulls his mouth off Charles’ nipple. And there are the tears again. “No need for tears, darling. Don’t cry.” But _do_. Because it’s lovely, and Erik has never been harder in his life. But don’t be sad. Too early in the game to hope for that, though: Charles will learn to like this, but it will take time. “It’s all right.”  
  
Charles evidently doesn’t agree, biting out a stream of noises against the gag and driving his teeth down into it. There’s a spark of anger there, but it’s tired, used, and about all he can feasibly do is crane his head to follow Erik’s motion until it’s lost behind his back when Erik slips around behind him.  
  
“You have a truly lovely ass, my darling,” he admits—and for a man so unaccustomed to truth, telling it now sounds pretty damn good. Not nearly as good as tracing the dip of Charles’ back with the whole expanse of his hands, but not everything can be perfect. “And you’re already open for me. Tell me, Charles, have you ever taken a cock before?”  
  
Charles body slams into stillness. Who knows how he stops the shaking, but he can’t manage it for long, and when it starts up again, it’s worse than before. That’s an answer in and of itself, most likely. How delightful. A virgin to this sort of thing. He’d suspected, but to have it confirmed—everything just keeps on rolling toward perfection. Pity there have been women involved previously—but one can’t have everything.  
  
“No reason to be scared,” he tells Charles, cupping each round globe and squeezing, harder and harder, until he earns himself a noise of protest. He’ll be spanking that ass later, leaving his handprints all over it.  
  
 _Tsk, tsk_ , getting ahead of himself. So much to do—but there’s no rush.  
  
“I won’t hurt you,” he assures Charles, grasping the base of the plug between his fingers. “Not like this.” Clamps and spanking are all well and good, but fucking someone so brutally as to cause damage—that’s something Charles will never experience. No blood, no tearing. He’ll be prepped, and prepped well. He already is, with that plug. “When I’m up inside you, it will always be with due care.”  
  
It’s irrelevant for the moment anyhow. Suspended as Charles is from the ceiling, he’s too far up for a cock anywhere near his ass. Fingers, however….  
  
Erik pulls the plug out with one smooth tug, but Charles doesn’t quite succeed in stifling the harsh gasp that causes. Such a very good idea to choose a bit gag: Charles’ nose is beginning to sound rather plugged from the crying, and the bit allows him to take in a fair amount of air through his mouth, if he tries. He has to work for it, but it’s possible: a good balance.  
  
“Now, then: that cool down I promised. Open up, love.”  
  
And Charles does, despite himself. His body opens easily—accustomed to the plug by now—when Erik pinches an ice cube between his fingers and pushes it up against Charles’ hole. One good poke, and it slides right in, nestling into heated flesh.  
  
The noise Charles makes….  
  
It starts out as a cry, but it tapers off into something longer and lower, more like a moan, and when he can’t hold that anymore, it turns hitching and tortured, half-sobbed. This would have been worth recording—put the track on his IPod, listen when he’s having a shitty day at work.  
  
Maybe later.  
  
The present arguably has enough delights of its own. One ice cube after another, sliding right up into Charles’ body while he sobs and sobs, steadily now—and who can blame him? That ice must be freezing him from the inside out. Four cubes, five….  
  
The fifth cube—that’s enough. And, so, back in place the plug goes. Give it a few minutes, and Charles’ body will melt that ice down. What then? So much potential, but the thought of licking the melted water out of Charles’ ass is a difficult option to turn down.  
  
Poor thing must be going mad with the sensation—and Charles _does_ fight against it, gathering the last tatters of his strength and pitching into the restraints, tossing the chair around again, scraping its legs over the floor as he flops. If the rooms weren’t soundproofed, this would doubtless be audible from the hallway. Though, maybe some things are: Azazel thought he heard crying—but he could have left the door slightly ajar until he knew Charles was settled.  
  
“Prrrrese—Pllles—“  
  
Darling Charles, pretty Charles—is he really so naïve? But begging is good, so sweet on his lips, and if Charles wants to indulge in it, far be it for Erik to deny that.  
  
Grinning, he takes a hold of one of the rings at the side of Charles’ face and gives it a tug, shaking lightly, pulling Charles’ head from side to side. His hair looks lovely like that, flopping down into his eyes, begging Erik to brush it back—and he does, though Charles is up high enough that it’s a bit of a reach. “Whose are you, love?” he asks, stroking through thick locks with the hand not holding the gag. “Say it.”  
  
Nothing. Venom spitting out in that narrowed gaze, and exhaustion in spades, but Charles won’t give it up to him yet. Interesting. Men more hardened than Charles have broken sooner. That says very good things for his strength. Charles will bend to _him_ , yes, but anyone else—it’s nice to know he’ll never bend for anyone else. Not without a great deal of effort, and no one else will ever have the chance to apply that.  
  
“No? Well, all right. But you know how to stop this.”  
  
Not that he’ll stop—but he needs that original break before he can dig his fingers inside the crack and split Charles open completely, show him how totally he’s owned.  
  
Plenty of ways to get that, though, with time—and it’s actually rather refreshing to work at something so… different from his usual course. Typically it’s a gun to the face, broken bones, burned fingertips… Torture is an art form all its own, but pleasure is appealing in a completely different way that he so seldom utilizes.  
  
“This must be getting sore by now,” he comments, flicking the weight at the end of the clamp and setting it to swinging.  
  
Charles keens.  
  
“Thought so. Would you like it off?”  
  
Frantic nodding—and, how sweet, another burst of tears. He’ll have to make certain Charles drinks after this: after all the sweating and crying, he’ll be dehydrated.  
  
“A bargain, then. Something simple, for now.” It’s something of a personal habit to make a show of thinking, but it’s so much better with Charles’ eyes on him. The gaze of a rival, or of a victim meant for punishment is always heady, but _Charles’_ gaze sets him aflame. “How about this: I’ll take that clamp off if you lean into my touch. Nothing complicated. Just… lean into me.”  
  
From the despair on Charles’ face, one would think it’s a death sentence—not that there’s any reason to be insulted. If Charles’ is aware of what that request means—that he’s giving something of himself, no matter how small at this juncture—then he knows where things are headed… and he’ll have recognized that this is the first step in accepting the journey down that path.  
  
The question then becomes: does he want relief more than he wants his pride?  
  
 _Just lean into me._  
  
Just do as I say. Just let me have you.  
  
With such care that—well, it’s even a little surprising to _him_ —he stretches up and hovers his hand a few inches away from Charles’ face. “Go on, love. Just lean in.”  
  
There’s a moment of uncertainty, of Charles’ eyes flickering toward Erik’s palm, sizing it up. For those precarious few seconds, there’s every indication that Charles won’t do it… and then his eyes slip closed, and he heaves a full-bodied sigh that devolves into a shudder.  
  
He leans his cheek into Erik’s palm.


	3. Chapter 3

Oh. _Oh_. It’s more perfect than he’d thought. The spark in those eyes, how Charles’ lashes flutter and he curls his lips around the gag, doing his best to shut his mouth and forgetting there’s something in the way—he isn’t _quite_ there yet, that point when he’ll fully give in… but he’s close. And from there it’s a hop, skip, and a jump to obeying _before_ the pain starts, when the threat of it alone will be enough to gain compliance. To think, that will give way to heeding on the basis of just the command, no threat required, and, after that—  
  
After that, it’s not so long until obeying becomes second nature, until Charles comes to _enjoy_ it.  
  
But that’s getting ahead of himself. This business—he ought to know better, after so long in what essentially amounts to a profession of intimidation, fear, and strategy. Successful men plan for the future, but they take only the present as a given.  
  
Not that the present is half bad: a pretty boy, neck arched to the side in a graceful curve, chin tipped up just slightly, and muscles so deliciously tense as he rests his cheek in Erik’s palm.  
  
Not bad at all.  
  
“Oh, you _are_ a treasure.” A swipe of his thumb over a cheekbone, up toward Charles’ hairline, and brushing down backwards, smoothing the hair in the wrong direction. A few locks stick out haphazardly. Hard to tell, nearly, when his hair is such a mess from all the thrashing.  
  
Amazing.  
  
But, a promise is a promise—and while that means less than nothing should keeping his word cease to be beneficial, in this case, it absolutely _is_ beneficial. The things he can gain from this… Those _eyes_ , dazed with relief when Charles gets what he’s been promised, and the sweet little shudder that will take hold of Charles’ body when the pain ceases—nearly enough to make a man reach his climax just thinking about it.  
  
“I’ll be good to you when you listen,” he croons, notching the tips of his fingers into the back of Charles’ jaw and tipping him up, bending that beautiful neck just _right_ —  
  
If the chair were a bit lower, he’d set his teeth into skin and strew bruises across the creamy white. Women and their make-up, always primping and preening, but Charles—a complexion like that doesn’t need to be painted with cosmetics. Set a bruise into the flesh, and with skin that stunning it’d be enough to draw every eye in the room.  
  
The first party he brings Charles to, that’s a promise… and one worth keeping.  
  
For now, though, such sweet obedience deserves its reward.  
  
A quick pinch frees the clamp from the abused flesh. And, ah, yes, there it is, that shudder: must hurt something awful, all that blood rushing back in. Letting that last a bit longer would be the most educational thing to do, but Charles has been such a good boy, and—perhaps he’s going soft, all these thoughts of domesticity and _Charles_ , this business of setting up a life with him in it, but it’s so tempting to indulge him. Charles promises to be almost as alluring when he’s spoiled as when he’s suffering, and the idea of enfolding him down into both sensations at once is too good to pass up.  
  
A treat, then: a hand around his cock, starting out slow, slicked with no more than Charles’ own sweat—there’s certainly enough of it, and a quick swipe at the crease of Charles’ thighs where they fold into his leg gathers more—he pumps him once, twice.  
  
As it turns out, that’s exactly right. Nothing hotter than this: watching Charles twist his upper body, trying to rub out the ache in his chest against nothing more than air, but losing his train of thought to the sensations in his cock. He’s utterly buffeted between two extremes, mind torn from the ache in his nipple and the blazing heat in his groin, and he shatters against each, bucking into both, bucking into neither, and he ends up biting out unintelligible syllables against the gag and twisting fruitlessly until his knees give out and he comes with a bitten-off cry so strangled that he chokes himself, devolving into a hacking cough as he spurts all across his own stomach.  
  
It’s like a mini treat, raking his eyes over Charles as his chest heaves and his abdomen spasms, fighting to take in air. He isn’t suffocating—as if _that_ would be allowed—and the air comes if he tries hard enough, but watching him struggle for it is a personal pleasure. _More_ pleasure, though, in touching him, smearing warm cum up over the heaving muscle and experiencing the panic made physical, as Charles gasps for air.  
  
It fades soon enough, and, moaning softly, Charles nudges himself sideways by kicking out—if it can be called that, when it’s almost endearingly feeble, like watching a kitten try to take its first steps—and biting the rope into his ankle. He tips away from Erik, swinging his groin out of Erik’s touch: one more shudder, then, and he goes limp.  
  
Of course, that can’t last either: hanging from only his arms is going to do a real number on his muscles. There’s logic in letting him figure that out for himself—though, that doesn’t mean the waiting isn’t the kind of nerve-itching madness that calls for pacing, or a good session at the shooting range. Watching all that pretty hang there without intending to do anything about it is a recipe for insanity.  
  
After about a minute—the seconds tick off in his mind, slipping along on the mental image of a clock that’s always so useful for counting how much longer a man has before he bleeds out—Charles’ hands begin to spasm in the cuffs, clenching and unclenching, tiny frantic motions of his fingers. It must hurt, having his skin strangled by the metal.  
  
A little help might not be remiss—and it’s quite the heartening prospect, the thought of reaching up to touch. Plus—oh, and isn’t that just a _kicker_ , that Charles _needs_ his help, will _continue_ to need his help, in order to become all that he’s capable of being. That brilliant mind, wasted in Marko’s household? No. Absolutely not. It’s going to be the treat of a lifetime, to nurture Charles; to ask after his day; to prompt him to recite his lessons in bed, while he submits, taking and taking and _taking_ whatever is given to him—and _liking_ it.  
  
Don’t touch, though, not yet—timing is everything, with a little pressure, right at the precise point. Twist just _so_ , and Charles will fall into place.  
  
“You’ll look beautiful against black silk sheets,” he murmurs—and it’s too much, too tempting, not to give one last pat to Charles’ cum-smeared stomach, wiping his hand clean on the unmarked areas. The boy hasn’t even the energy to flinch, bless him. How exhausted he’ll be when this is done, surely enough to allow himself to be held for hours after, while he sleeps back into his natural energy.  
  
Maybe blue sheets too, to compliment that gaze: that half-moon sliver of blue that’s peering downward, begging—oh, how darling, he’s _begging_ with his eyes—for… probably for this to stop.  
  
No, Charles, not yet.  
  
Denial builds character. Years watching his own back, no quick fucks picked up from bars—hasn’t he proved that in any way possible? People will do anything for a buck, including spike a drink. Nothing worse than ending up at the bottom of the river without being able to take a few people along in the process.  
  
All those years. Funny to think on them now, with Charles so close. Just considering it brings back a sort of fond memory. So much denial, and here is the result: Charles is the greatest indulgence he’s ever allowed himself, and the time spent denying what he really wanted has built the foundations of this situation.  
  
So what if it wasn’t pleasant back then? Now, it’s absolutely worth it.  
  
“We’ll keep this for later.” Big blue eyes blink, watching him tuck the clamp and chain into the breast pocket of his shirt. And they _will_ be kept: when he has Charles down on the floor, fucking the last resistance out of him—kind of like a cherry on top, in a fantastically twisted literal sense, at least in part—it’ll make the perfect incentive. Move, and the weight will tug—like fire, like a part of the body searing right off, if a few of those infrequent one night stands are to believed. A couple of those temporary indulgences had cried when he’d put the clamps on them. Or had that been when they’d realized just whom they were in bed with? Whatever: it’s irrelevant now. The point is, with the clamps: stay put, and the hurt might at least pass for tolerable.  
  
Not nice, but tolerable.  
  
“You’ll hurt your arms hanging that way.” Though, maybe… “Are you _trying_ to do damage?”  
  
Interesting. A tone like that, he might as well be facing down someone who’s seconds away from a bullet to the brain. But not Charles—such a perfect brain—for Charles, warmth doesn’t _have_ to come _easily_ , or in verbal form, but it does need to _exist_. It’ll take work, and not the usual kind, but every scrap of information on Charles highlighted the need for affection—and the dearth of it from the mess he calls a family—and if that’s what he _needs_ … That’s what it means, having to have something: so, he’ll learn it, for Charles. Such a sweet nature can’t take steel _all_ the time.  
  
“Darling.” Silly boy—does he really think he’s the first to try to hurt himself in hopes of gaining access to a doctor to whom he can appeal for help, maybe ask to send a message? “Oh, darling.” Laughing seems a little… hmm, _harsh_. It would send the wrong message. But shaking his head isn’t quite enough. It doesn’t dispel the… call it whatever, but it’s really just amusement, when it comes right down to it. “If you hurt yourself, you’ll see _my_ doctor. And I can promise you that he won’t help you. You’re welcome to try, if you like, but….”  
  
Refraining from touching for any longer is out of the question, with Charles swaying there, head drooping onto his own shoulder, eyes slow-blinking and narrowed into slits. It’d take a saint not to touch at this point.  
  
Self-control like that? Ridiculous. It’s merely a load of cowardice made up to soothe those who can’t stomach doing what needs to be done.  
  
A little touch, then, enough to last but not to indulge too far—there, right like _that_ , no more than a thumb over a toned thigh. It’s nice like this, Charles slicked over with sweat that takes the press of a thumb so eagerly, lets it glide over the skin with greater ease.  
  
“If you try to gain the doctor’s help, I’ll tie you up and stuff you full with a vibrator. I’ll turn it on, one setting at a time, higher and higher until you’re writhing with it, until you can’t remember your own name, let alone what you wanted to tell him.” A quick tap to Charles’ hip sets him to swaying gently, dangled from what must be terribly sore wrists by this point. “What do you think of _that_?”  
  
A soft wheeze is the only answer. So, nothing favorable? Too bad. Attractive, though: Charles’ eyes slip closed and his cheeks twitch against the gag. Hmm. It’s getting a bit raw around the edges of his mouth. Take it out? Possibly… but, no. The rawness will heal, and the lesson is worth the temporary damage.  
  
“You’d do better to stand up.” His mother always said he looked devious when he quirked an eyebrow: hopefully Charles appreciates the expression more.  
  
Unfortunately, that’s unlikely. And, frankly, Edie Lehnsherr would have found it completely disconcerting to see Charles flash signals with those eyes, broadcasting all-too-clearly that he’s picturing Erik burning in Hell.  
  
Rather depressing, all things considered. Or it would be if it didn’t translate into potential: just one more challenge in a long line, though Charles—perfection that he is—will be the most rewarding of successes.  
  
“Won’t you stand?” he asks again, swaying in a little closer and—why not? Might as well accustom Charles to it, to the feeling of a mouth on his skin, to lips twitching against his hip, contracting the muscles of the mouth to rake over as many nerves as possible and drive Charles wild. As oversensitive as Charles is, that won’t be difficult. Closer, closer—a brush of lips over his cock. And he _must_ be exhausted, when all he does is quiver, little lines of rippling weakness, down through the tops his thighs. The movement disappears into the cease of his thighs, and he slumps into the chains more fully that before.  
  
Yes, _this_ , right here: Charles, as he is, so tired, at a breaking point—almost there, and just a push _more_.  
  
A smile might even do it. And the look of him—Charles is flushed red with exertion, sweaty and breathless—makes it the easiest thing in the world to muster one up.  
  
Whether Charles catches the expression or not—probably not—he cracks his eyes open into slits, losing control of his gaze and letting it drop. Can’t have that, though, scrappy little fighter that he is: it’s precious—and actually rather impressive—how he pulls back a shred of self-control right at the last minute, unbalancing himself and accidentally tipping the motion into his hips. It’s a perfect miniature of what must be going on internally, as close as Charles is to giving in, and with as much tenacity as he’s using to cling to his autonomy. But if this is the closest possible point to that—to seeing those insides—it’ll do for now, until Charles’ inward self can be properly exposed, opened up as it should be, for the person to whom it now belongs.  
  
Anyway, a stand-in will always have to suffice to some degree: it’s not like he can rip Charles’ beating heart out of his chest. That’s an excellent tactic for an execution, but it has a very permanent ending. Depressing, sometimes, how quickly it ends things. Nothing for it, though, and that’s why Charles’ exposure will be so very much better. All of the intimacy and raw, cracked-open vulnerability without the ending.  
  
Anyway, he never wanted to see those men like he’s wants to see Charles: and the cessation of their beating hearts is no great loss, not like it would be with Charles.  
  
Charles.  
  
Charles, whose movement in his hips has overbalanced him, swinging him forward—and what an appealing pendulum he makes. “Ca-Can’t.”  
  
Can’t stand yet? Certainly not: that was a forgone conclusion, even when the question was asked. Doesn’t Charles know that he’s _supposed_ to fail this one? “No?”  
  
Anyhow, “no” isn’t permanent. Men who are at their last limits don’t look like this—but Charles wouldn’t have cause to know what those kinds of men look like. He might truly believe he’s reached the end of his rope— _ha_ , how appropriate—with no hope of the second wind that he’ll eventually gain.  
  
“If only you had the kind of faith in yourself that _I_ have in you,” he tells Charles wryly. “Let’s see if we can’t help you along into doing a little better.”  
  
Going to work would be so much more enjoyable if all his interactions were this promising: sliding a hand over Charles’ hip, he slips around behind him, glorying in the way Charles quivers and tries to gather his legs up under himself in order to push away. He’s relentless, this boy. Physically stronger men than he is have conceded under far less.  
  
“I don’t expect you to be able to do it on your own, you know.” Said conversationally, but, then, that’s what it _should_ be. Charles will, eventually, talk to him, tell him everything.  
  
In the meantime, they have _this_ : “this” being, at the moment, the really rather attractive plug that Charles has up his ass. Honestly, it looks obscene, pushed up into that tiny pucker. Large and black, more prominent when set off against the paleness of Charles’ skin. Stopping up all that ice inside of him, it can’t be comfortable. It’s a kindness, almost, tugging it free.  
  
And it’s a _pleasure_ , seeing the effects.  
  
The fun with virgins—virgin to sex with a man, at least—is that they don’t understand what’s happening. The few that have graced his bed before were never quite _this_ fun, but they’d snapped with their own surprise too. Never so beautifully as Charles, of course, but that’s to be expected.  
  
As soon as the plug pulls free, Charles yelps, pitching forward as much as he can, both ankles driving down into the chair; when he discovers what it feels like to have someone part his cheeks, to have a mouth on his ass, licking up the melted ice water that gushes out of him, he flails—and, yes, gets his feet back under him.  
  
The water’s lukewarm on the tongue, but it’s the pleasure of eating Charles out that matters. That sweet little rosebud of skin, and the way it spasms under his tongue, too wide and stretched from the plug to keep him out... near enough to heaven, and, no question, this is about as close as he’ll ever get. Near enough, if he gets to keep this.  
  
One thrust of tongue after another up inside of Charles, and, to finish it, a sharp nip to his backside that will leave an attractive bruise on the fleshiest part of his ass. Just like painting a picture. He’s clean and washed—Azazel cleaned him up when he put the plug in, and there’s a hint of soap remaining. Everything is exactly perfect—and that’s not something that can be often said.  
  
Just to top it all off, Charles starts up babbling against the gag. It’s nothing more than “no,” over and over, but one has to appreciate his determination. Things so sweet as this were _made_ to be appreciated—and Charles protests so very beautifully, nothing like the disgusting drug dealer whose shipment was overpriced last week, or the skuzzy businessman who was late on his loan, or the inconsequential number of others whom Erik has personally seen to in the years up until now. No one sings out denials quite as beautifully as Charles.  
  
Still, “no” is not the correct answer.  
  
“What have I said about ‘no,’ Charles?”  
  
Silence. He’s _learning_ , clever boy.  
  
Pushing one last kiss to Charles’ entrance, he draws back and, casting a glance at the bucket of ice that he’s set aside near the chair—right where it should be, good—he prowls back over to the table and picks up the last of the two items: the bamboo switch and the feather. Good tools, sturdy and sweeping respectively, and carefully selected. What an enjoyable time that had been. Emm, well, not the call itself, when he’d found out that Charles had tried to run, but it’d been such a gift afterward, kicking back and thinking this through, considering exactly what would impress the concept of ownership into Charles’ endearingly stubborn sense of self.  
  
Nice to know he’s—not _perfect_ , but good enough for Charles, to help him along into what he should be. And they’re on the cusp of that, finally: the look in Charles’ eyes when Erik turns back, items in hand, tips over into raw trauma, which is good, just about right—completely where they should be.  
  
All this time, just to get that look. Oh, they’re nearly there. So close.  
  
“I don’t repeat myself often.” Never, in fact. More of the shoot-first-never-answer-questions sort of operation, and thank god for that, because what a tedious chore it would be to be so very pedantic with everyone. Charles will always be the exception—and he’d be doing Charles a disservice, withholding necessary correction. “And you’re a clever boy: you shouldn’t need me to tell you twice.”  
  
Might be three times, if Charles keeps up what he’s doing, tracking the bamboo switch with his eyes, rather than listening. If he wants it so badly, though….  
  
As the old saying goes: a boy’s ears are on his backside.  
  
But, first: “Oh, love,” he sighs, and, transferring both feather and switch to one hand—kept in Charles’ line of sight, obviously—he reaches out and strokes the back of his hand down Charles’ jaw line, smoothing nail and knuckle alike into the skin. “Haven’t you learned yet? You’re _mine_.”  
  
Exhausted, worked-over, and terrified, and his boy still draws out a bitter twist of lips around the gag: he bites down into the rubber, dropping his head to the side and looking away. It isn’t the glare from before, but the distinct spark of anger is there just the same, written out in the haughty line of his neck and the stretch of muscle.  
  
Not quite yet, then. But… getting closer.  
  
Even so, a crack only matters if it’s widened, and the best wedge is surprise. Charles is expecting a lash, but another ice cube to his back, collected from the bucket where it’s positioned behind Charles, shocks him into a flop, driving the metal cuffs into his skin—and there’s a rivulet of blood now, leaking from the origin point at his wrist and snaking down the inside of his arm.  
  
Beautiful. If he knew—if Charles could see how _beautiful_ —  
  
If he could see, then this wouldn’t be necessary. That’s the truth. In a way, then, it’s rather fortuitous that Charles isn’t quite done fighting yet: all that skin was meant to be striped. Who would have thought? But it’s like connecting the dots between freckles with straight lines of red lightning: a natural phenomenon not to be missed.  
  
The ice cube melts as it glides over Charles’ skin, pushed by twisting muscle when Charles struggles. He’s rubbed his wrists raw with fighting, but he keeps it up against the cold of the cube, heaving his chest forward and bowing his back, ducking away and getting nowhere, losing his feet every so often and having to struggle back up by locking his knees and leaning into the chains for support.  
  
That’ll be enough of that, then. The area under the ice is red with cold, peppered with goosebumps. Just perfect for a kiss. Curving a mouth to that flesh, tonguing the iciness of it and dragging teeth along the bumps is the sort of thing kings would pay good money to experience—not that he’d ever give them the chance.  
  
Certainly not: this is _his_ , and sharing— _hmm_ , no, that was left behind with childish ways and whatnot. Back in preschool, actually, when it became apparent that it was getting him nowhere. What he has now—Charles—is, earned or not, the kind of high only before attained by snatching something important out from under a competitor’s nose: knowing that he’s gotten away with something.  
  
Best feeling in the world, this sense of accomplishment.  
  
Sure, each risk could be the last, but why care about that when he can trace the red on Charles’ skin, mapped out by the cold? With an outline that defined, he can dig his nail along the line of meeting between red and pale, pushing down until the demarcation exists via an indent as well. “You don’t say ‘no’ to me.” Serious words, serious tone—but for a serious issue. Charles will learn this _now_.  
  
And he’ll learn it well.  
  
The first strike of the cane—feather transferred to his other hand, held in reserve—stripes down across the chilled portion of Charles’ skin, and it’s beautiful, the darker red on the lighter red, surrounded by cream. History class—or was it geography?—had those maps, those raised section ones, with hills and mountains. Topographical—that was it. Charles’ skin could pass as a topographical map.  
  
Nice to know those lessons are paying off. Good application for the knowledge—but he’s damn well earned it. Half of the bastards in his class slacked off, and he’d put his nose to the grindstone, gotten _better_ , and look where he is now.  
  
American dream? You better believe it.  
  
And Charles too—that fancy education will do him good. Dinner parties, society events, that whole mess that Erik had needed to learn to navigate—Charles will know it all already. Dress him up in a tux and parade him out, and he’ll be a damn sight smarter than anyone else there.  
  
And he’ll be _Erik’s_.  
  
Not that he isn’t already—and, just to prove it: he cracks the second blow down across Charles’ back. What a noise, what a _lovely_ noise that Charles’ makes, halfway between a whine and a sob, but with a tiny hitch of breath in the middle. Just so. That blow, harder than the first, might have done a bit to convince him of how things are, if that noise is anything to go by. How lovely. _So_ lovely, with the—oh, Charles, that’s actually, _hmm_ … a bit heartbreaking, watching his eyes blinker, squeezing out tears. Just a little longer, and he’ll kiss that better, treat Charles like the gold no one ever realized he is. And in the meantime…  
  
He looks… _very good_ when crying.  
  
It takes an admirable amount of self-control, this restraint of not simply grabbing Charles and lowering him down, fucking up into him right this second. If timing weren’t absolutely everything—another day, perhaps, they’ll do that, when Charles is good and ready to understand it, and they have the luxury of a long, sunny afternoon up in the penthouse, alone and without such a fundamental lesson to teach and learn.  
  
The third and fourth blows catch Charles over the line of the first two, each raising deep red welts over the chilled portion of the skin. In the mob’s area of work, surprises are usually along the lines of bullet to the brain, but Charles’ surprises are proving to be the nice kind: no screams yet. That doesn’t mean he isn’t breaking inwardly, but what a sweet little soldier he’s proving himself to be, taking it all so stoically. Goodness knows, if Charles weren’t meant to be at his side, he might have made an excellent employee. Nothing so brute-force as wet works, of course, but he could have done well as a mole in someone else’s organization.  
  
But, obviously: no. That would require Charles to spend time away from him. Not to mention, employees have to be expendable, by virtue of their precarious positions, and Charles….  
  
Out of the question. Let him play in his lab—something to think on, the costs of installing a lab, but, for Charles, well, _maybe_. It’d be worth it, to see him smile, peer over the top of a microscope, to have something to put away when he’s called back to bed—and how he’ll _sigh_ at being interrupted, but he’ll put his experiments up for the time being and come when he’s called, explain his research when asked, in the afterglow of a good fucking, when they’re lying together, tangled in bed.  
  
Science, though— _hmm_ , perhaps a little medical training? It would be useful to have someone so close, who could stitch wounds and stop bleeding.  
  
Yes, they’ll get Charles trained up in the basics.  
  
But—this is getting ahead again. Honestly, a rookie mistake, and—he closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and slams the switch into Charles’ back for the fifth blow.  
  
From there, it’s simple to fall into the rhythm, six, seven—one harsh sob on seven—eight, nine, and then ten with a lighter strike than the first nine, but delivered down low, over Charles’ buttocks where none of the others have touched.  
  
Hell, _yes_ : it’s the surprise that finally draws out a scream. Better than good wine, that sound, high and strained, with a chance of shredding Charles’ vocal cords if he keeps it up. That’s all right. That sort of thing heals up quickly enough, and Charles’ voice won’t be required until he’s learned what kinds of things are acceptable to say.  
  
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he comments idly, twirling the quill of the feather between his fingertips. Damn if he knows what bird it’s from. “If you ever run from me again, love, I’ll do this to you twice as hard and for twice as long as what I did today.” Flipping the feather around until the fringe is pointed toward the skin, he dips it down against Charles’ back, drawing it over the welts. Soft, like brush strokes, painting a picture with Charles’ pain. It’s not the kind of picture that can be seen, but Charles will feel it all down his nerves.  
  
Yes, there he goes: shivering and twitching, weak spasms in his lower back against the feather. How about that? Sensitivity, even on the cusp of total exhaustion—and that’s close too, with Charles’ head hanging down against his chest and his thighs quivering, poised to fail again at any moment. The bitten-off ends of words that are rolling around on his lips are quite the tell as well, more along the line of breaths that tangled up accidentally with words. But… there’s something there, something—that’s a pattern, dribbling out.  
  
“Wh—Wh—eye—Wh—huh—“  
  
Why. He’s asking why.  
  
“Because I’d never seen anything like you,” he admits, pressing in closer and reaching around, arm ducking under Charles’ shoulder and curling up his front, stretching upward until it’s possible to get a good grip on his neck. Not choking, but holding him steady so as to reach around his other side and drag the tip of the feather over the nipple that hadn’t worn the clamp. That earns a twitch—and it’s delicious, having Charles’ inadvertently push back against him.  
  
Onto the other nipple, and, predictably enough, the reward is an agonized moan and a hint of squirming, though that’s absorbed easily enough by a tight hold. “Such a good boy, a clever boy, beautiful too, and you are… everything I could have ever wanted. I saw you, and I knew I had to have you. But I was careful, darling, and made sure, had you watched—but what I learned from that, all it did—I _knew_ : it had to be _you_. No one else would be good enough. They never will, not ever again.”  
  
Funny, how sometimes the truth slips out. If he wants to sleep with other people, there’s nothing Charles can do about it, but this… it’s honestly, truly reality. When no one else will ever compare, why have anyone besides Charles?  
  
No answers from Charles, but that’s expected. It’s enough to gain those hitched breathes when he prods at the underside of Charles’ nipple with the stiff tip of the feather before dragging down lower, fanning the softness over Charles’ belly, lower and lower, until he can push against the feather’s grain down the underside of Charles’ cock. It’s hypnotizing to watch, how the feathering clumps up and then spring forward, tickling over the skin and making the organ twitch.  
  
Charles is hard again. Good to know. By the time they’re done, he’ll likely be coming dry—as is intended. Wrung out in every way: physically, mentally, emotionally, and sexually. “Go on, darling, come for me again. Do you need help to do it?”  
  
Charles’ swallows against his palm. That isn’t an answer, but it gets his meaning across well enough: tired, scared, confused, conflicted. Yes, then: he needs the help.  
  
“Just let go,” he murmurs, curling his hand around Charles’ cock and tugging. Once, twice, a small twist of his wrist and a flick of his thumb over the head—and off Charles goes, shuddering out his release, hot and sticky over Erik’s hand and his own stomach. Again. What a mess he’ll be at the end of this. Perhaps a long, hot bath when they’re done.  
  
Once Charles has gone limp, shoulders sagging and legs giving out, Erik pulls back. Orgasm saps energy at the best of times, but when Charles is already so exhausted… He’s not broken yet, though, and so they’ll keep on at this until he _is_ , and until he admits it.  
  
Leaning forward, he delivers a hard slap with the palm of his hand, directly over the welt on Charles’ ass.  
  
Gorgeous: there’s barely a response. So, _so_ close. He could ask his question again right now—but it might be better to be absolutely certain of the response before he does. “I could fuck you right this second,” he admits. This is no conversation in the strictest sense, but it’s enjoyable, playing it off as one. And… it’s a distraction for Charles, when Erik draws back and dips his hands into the curve of that delightful backside, sliding them lower and prying apart Charles’ crack with his fingers. Earlier, Charles had tried to clench, and he does now too, but it’s weak and easily overcome merely by waiting him out, until he lets go and relaxes, wheezing.  
  
There, right there, the most intimate part of his body, displayed under Erik’s hands. Shooting a man? It’s a power rush. Working Charles over and reaching this point? He could be _king_ , with the surge he’s getting.  
  
That surge only gets better—turns into a genuine flood—when he fingers the switch in his hand and lines it up, a few inches above Charles’ hole, and brings it down three times in quick succession, directly between the crack of Charles’ cheeks and over his hole.  
  
Seems there was a little energy left after all: Charles squeals and pitches forward, and—  
  
He breaks.  
  
Exactly like that. The exact moment is obvious. His body gives one long, full shudder and then goes still, all except for his mouth, which, despite the gag and what must be a very sore throat indeed, begins to form sounds, minute snatches of things, but very obvious all the same.  
  
“Yuh—uh—ors—yuh—“  
  
Yours.  
  
Oh, yes, Charles, exactly correct.  
  
 _Finally_.


	4. Chapter 4

Once the words are out, the tension rushes from Charles’ limbs. Saying that his legs buckle doesn’t quite do the motion justice when Charles is up so high to begin with, and there’s not much space to fall—but fall he does. His legs simply stop holding him, and he plunges the few inches downward to hang, limp, at the end of the chains, fingers twitching once before tangling in the chains and going still.  
  
There won’t be any getting him back up this time. His second wind has come and gone, and anything he scrapes out not will be motivated by sheer will-power, Charles pushing past the limits of what ought to be possible and clawing his way into the energy meant for his biological functions. Consciousness? It won’t last long once he’s moved to that point.  
  
It’s so good, though, the sight of his exhaustion: wouldn’t be too hard to reach a climax right this moment, merely from looking at those tired blue eyes that are staring blurrily off toward the wall, and—still looking at the table, then? Probably wondering if there’s anything there to tell him what’s coming next.  
  
Well, no need for that. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be allowed to know: this part of the evening’s entertainment is more about cementing what Charles has already learned. Nice to see that he’s curious, though.  
  
“Good boy,” he murmurs, curving one hand to the jut of Charles’ hip and smoothing his thumb along the ridge of the bone. Drawing back a little, he wipes the mess on his hand off on the meat of Charles’ side—not too much flesh, though, given how slender Charles is. Healthy, solid, with an overall heft to his build—not greyhound thin, like Erik’s mother once accused _him_ of being—but small, and without much fat on him. “I’ll be so good to you, darling.”  
  
That’s nothing but the truth. Charles will have the best of everything. Damn, but the boy will look beautiful in bespoke clothes, plied with expensive wine, seated first class on the occasional trips abroad that become necessary when a shipment… fails to materialize. Charles ought to have had those things all along—the Xavier name has a hefty price tag attached—but Kurt fucking Marko hadn’t a penny to spend on his stepson when it wasn’t strictly necessary for appearances.  
  
Speaking of that: as good as Charles will look in a tux? Marko will look just as bad—just as _good_ —with a bullet through his head.  
  
And what a pleasure it will be to put it there.  
  
“I run guns, you know,” he tells Charles absently, reluctantly releasing his hip and stepping away from him, heading over to the side wall where Azazel has tied the rope off.  
  
At this point, Charles might not be listening, caught up in a space of pure inward reflection. It happens: some men drop into that once they’ve been pushed beyond what they can take. For Charles, it would be a forgivable lapse, considering the circumstances. But talking to him, regardless of whether he’s listening—it keeps the focus, tells a story.  
  
And Erik’s story is, after all, a pretty damn good narrative.  
  
“It’s made me a very rich man. Rich enough to bring you here, and rich enough to have the resources to keep you.”  
  
Kept, in every sense of the word.  
  
One loop undone, another, three—the rope was only tied off around the cleat fastened into the wall, and it’s easy enough to unloop the knot. Thinking on it is funny, somehow, that this little knot could hold all of Charles’ weight.  
  
Charles. Yes. Charles, and his delightful sounds, the purely orgasm-inducing noise he makes when the rope gives and Erik lets out the slack, lowering Charles down, if only a few inches. Wouldn’t do to drop him too quickly, when that would send him slamming downward. If he hasn’t gotten himself adjusted properly, that would possibly upend the chair and send him crashing to the ground. With his ankles tied the way they are, that could potentially snap bones—and that simply wouldn’t do, not with the amount of time the recovery would take. Hurting Charles that badly—hurting him any more than superficially—was never part of the plan.  
  
A little at a time does the trick, though, a bit more the closer he gets to Charles, and, once he’s close enough, it’s a matter of holding the rope steady while he reaches out and catches Charles around the waist, taking his weight.  
  
“Oh, _there_ , little love,” he hums, and—oh, this is—this is _everything,_ and… _Charles_ is stunning, solid in his arms, and real under his hands in a way a body has never before been.  
  
It’s more than a bit ridiculous, isn’t it? He runs guns, sometimes drugs, knows his way around prostitution, and has collected on enough loans that the bodies have probably started stacking up at the bottom of the river. But this—but _Charles_ —it’s enough to make him want to dote and coddle. Whatever this is, and whatever it’s going to be, those things will be possible with Charles, without the worry of betrayal, of Charles leaving—of needing to put a bullet through his head in fear of what he might tell.  
  
How the hell could anyone ever love someone they might have to eventually kill? The choice to leave does that—makes the killing an eventual possibility.  
  
But Charles won’t have that choice.  
  
It’s no longer possible—not when… well, he’s already a little in love with Charles. Doesn’t matter, though. That’s fine. Letting him leave was never going to happen. Nice to know that’s confirmed now—that this was the right decision.  
  
Charles, Charles, Charles.  
  
Charles, who is shivering, and whose head lolls to the side, and— _this_ is what it’s like, having someone slump against him, head on his shoulder, limp and pliant, trusting him because there’s no other option. That is… an intoxicating kind of trust. It’ll grow to be more organic, even better when it’s in bed, Charles curled against him, allowing him to trace that skin—and maybe he’ll tie Charles up again at some point, but never like this, never to break him. Once this is done….  
  
A thought for later, perhaps. For now….  
  
  
“All right, there you are, there you go, just like that.”  
  
Charles folds easily down into the chair when he’s lowered, waiting there during the time it takes to tie the rope off again, now with the extra slack. What a sight he makes, hands cuffed in front of him, and legs tied to the arms of the chair. It crunches him up, bending his knees, and though he tries to angle his legs in toward each other, it’s the work of a quick swat, ricocheting back and forth between the insides of his knees, to flay him back out wide again, open for eager perusal.  
  
Charles complies pliantly enough, wheezing out a strain of a moan, and dropping his head to the side and onto his own shoulder. It’s a wonder he has enough energy left to bother shivering—though that’s involuntary, isn’t it? Whatever it is, it’s pretty, watching him do it, legs splayed wide and head drooping.  
  
“Shall I make you come, Charles? Again?”  
  
A wheezed-out breath—but Charles does crack his eyes and blink, shuddering a fraction of a degree harder at the possibility. Amazing: that shivering kicks up a notch with the first touch to his limp cock—and that’s without any friction. A blowjob? No. Not right now. Still, it’s a pleasure to get down on his knees and move in close to Charles. He presses in close, kissing the inside of one pale thigh, eyes on Charles’ cock, which is already beginning to twitch back to life. Wonderful thing, those drugs.  
  
“Hmmm. Maybe not yet.”  
  
Because he _can_ be merciful to those who deserve it—and Charles has done so very well for him tonight. They’ve already worked through to an admission of ownership, and all that’s left now is to prove that—to sign on the dotted line, as it were.  
  
Getting a grip on the front of the chair’s seat, he straightens up and slips around to the side of the chair. With his now free hand, he takes a hold of the back of the chair, and, with care—Charles is too important to be careless with—he tips it back, levering Charles down toward the floor.  
  
Another strangled moan is his only answer. Mmm, maybe not _only_. What a fighter, his Charles—he’ll be staring down rival mob bosses in no time, and they’ll never know just how strong Charles really is: those beautiful eyes would throw off the hardest son of a bitch. That… could be an asset, actually: looks like Charles will be attending negotiations from now on….  
  
“Lie back.”  
  
Not that Charles has much choice. But… he goes easily enough, sliding backwards off the chair and onto the floor when he’s tugged, pulled there by a solid grip on his bound wrists. A touch messy, those wrists. The cuffs have chafed the skin, left it bleeding, enough that some of the blood has dried and begun to flake, even as new blood trickles over the old, smearing the darker, almost black-shaded crust with a new, bright red.  
  
Only a few more minutes, though, and it won’t be much trouble to hold Charles once things get going again, to take the pressure off his wrists.  
  
Thankfully, though, Charles will keep for a moment—no further injuries right this second—and, in the meantime, the finishing touches. That is, getting up and going to where the rope is tied off. How sweet, the way Charles breathes a hint faster when he’s left alone on the floor—and he flutters his eyes open too, following any movement he can catch. How delightful: Charles tunes back in right on time.  
  
A quick tug on the rope raises Charles’ arms back into the air, and despite a quick groan and an aborted kick with his leg that scrapes the chair uselessly against the ground—rather feebly at this point—his whole body is raised soon after, dangling his upper body a foot, perhaps a few inches less, off the ground. His ass stays on the ground, supporting him, but his upper body hangs there, nothing more than dead weight, once the rope is tied off for a third time.  
  
He’s crying again. Great, fat tears that track down his cheeks and magnify his eyes. It’s a wonder he has any tears left—but if he has to cry, at least he looks magnificent doing it. He flushes delightfully, and his lips quiver, knocking the vibrations up through the gag into the tense muscles of his cheeks. A picture of debauchery, is his Charles.  
  
The things that exist to teach him… how he’ll look when he learns….  
  
One quick flip of the chair onto its front turns Charles’ lower half, straining the muscles of his sides until he flops completely over as well, following the motion of the chair. That’ll hurt more, resting primarily on his hips, with his back bowed—and there come the hitching sobs, barely present, but interfering with his breath all the same. The position can’t be good for his breathing either. He’ll need some help—and what a _pleasure_ it will be to oblige.  
  
“It’s all right,” he croons, sliding into the space left between Charles’ legs, courtesy of the chair, which keeps up its function and holds Charles’ legs open. There’s blood on his ankles too. The idea of scars—it might have been disagreeable, in another context, but a living memorial to what happens today might not be such a bad thing. And the prospect of tracing those scars with his tongue… “I’ve got you.”  
  
And so he does: one arm around Charles’ waist, and a quick shift of muscle is enough to tug Charles up, up—there, exactly like that, backward and up onto his knees. If he can get his own legs apart—perfect, just so, with his own legs tucked under him, leaving him kneeling between Charles’ spread legs, as he draws Charles back to sit on his lap, and tilting, tilting—there, precisely like that, reclining against his chest, close enough to snake one arm around, up under Charles’ bound arms where a hand can splay wide over his naked chest. Touching is too much of a temptation, so a quick tweak of a nipple—but, oh, Charles doesn’t like that, that’s not a sound of pleasure that he’s making, or even of good pain. Hmm, fine, for now they’ll leave off doing that: it doesn’t matter all that much to the rest of what needs to occur before they can finish up.  
  
“Pull away, and you’ll fall forward,” he mutters, nuzzling against the flesh of Charles’ ear. Just a quick nip—delightful, and perhaps not so quick after all, when he gets a taste, and traces the shell of that ear, then in further, into the curve of it, and finally the opening itself. Call it a prelude: fucking Charles’ ear with his tongue, before moving onto his ass.  
  
Things need to be kept moving, though: Charles only has so much endurance left before he passes out altogether. There will be ample opportunity to nibble at whatever part of Charles he likes later, after things have been properly consummated.  
  
One tap against the bit of the gag gets Charles’ attention well enough. “We’ll just take this off, hmm? Would you like that?” A—was that a nod? Yes, yes it was. What a good darling, trying so hard to answer.  
  
Taking the gag out should help with that, but tugging open the buckle and then slipping the rubber bit out from between Charles’ teeth doesn’t have quite the effect that it should. Sure, there’s a raspy sob of what sounds like relief, but it’s grainy, raked over—Charles must have ripped up his own throat with his cries. Not badly: the sounds are intelligible enough, but orange juice is probably best left off the menu for the next few days.  
  
“Just give me a moment…” he soothes, tossing the gag aside. They won’t need it again.  
  
Charles is already stretched from the plug, but the water had cleaned him out, washed away some of the slick. So, why not take a little care, even if it proves to be excessive? There’s no point in doing Charles actual damage. Wring him out, tire him out, but something like anal tearing—there’s nothing appealing about that. All that means is a broken pet, possible infection, a doctor’s visit—any number of unappealing options.  
  
It’s as he told Charles earlier: he will never hurt Charles like _this_.  
  
There’s a tube of lubricant in his trouser pocket, and it’s only a few seconds of delay to get it out and squirt some onto his hand and then to smear it carefully over his fingers. Seconds are nothing, when it makes things progress more smoothly—in every sense of the word. Charles is open enough to take two fingers right off—though, once the plug was out, he probably spent some of his energy trying to clench himself closed again. “You’re plenty open, love.” Twisting those two fingers—yes, plenty open indeed.  
  
It’s certainly no hardship to make certain, though. Charles’ hole is puffy and swollen, both from the plug and the bamboo switch, possibly even from the ice and subsequent tonguing. He spasms under this new touch, but he’s mostly languid, resting his head against Erik’s shoulder and devolving into a shaky series of gulped breaths that are the only indication he’s feeling anything at all.  
  
Such distance is unacceptable. A quick twist of fingers will take care of that detachment—and, there we go—  
  
 _Ha_. There’s no staying completely still through _that_.  
  
“That, lovely, is your prostate.”  
  
Not that Charles is likely to forget it anytime soon, judging by the strained cry that tugs out of him. There’s pain to the noise, but— _hmm_ , years of experience with kinds of pain do teach a man the different spectrums: the touch didn’t hurt Charles, but the cry raking over the rawness of his throat no doubt did.  
  
“To think, you’ve never been fucked by a man.”  
  
He’ll be Charles’ first and last—last of everything, in fact. Women—no more women after this, either. Though… perhaps, if Charles really misses the soft curves of a woman’s body—if he truly wants that, they could occasionally find a woman who would like to join them in bed. No more, though—that will be the extent of it: Charles will never again have sex without him present.  
  
It’s a fantastically heady notion.  
  
Up until this point, Charles has been strung up too high for any proper kissing. But now—that stretch of creamy neck draws his attention, and he leans in, lashing it with his tongue and sucking marks up the straining line of tendon, biting down on it occasionally until he gets to the sweet dip under Charles’ ear, where the taste grows especially strong: a concentrated area of sweat, and sensitivity to boot, where sucking hard earns him an aborted twitch that stills when he tugs his fingers out of Charles ass and curls his hand up around Charles’ throat, right under his chin, and holds him steady.  
  
“You said you were mine, Charles. Prove that to me. Do as I say.”  
  
Or, do as he’s shown, more like: this isn’t telling Charles what to do so much as it’s maneuvering Charles’ body into a dance with his own.  
  
There’s no further struggle. Finally, time for the last of it—to—for the love of everything sweet, that’s _good_ , taking his own cock in hand, slicking it up—getting ready. Charles is open. He’s ready, prepped well—and if Charles can manage not to pull away after the first thrust, it might be time to let him down from the rope altogether. Let him at least have the benefit of propping himself on the floor in order to gain a little leverage against the thrusts.  
  
Only one way to tell whether or not that’ll be how it goes.  
  
This— _this_ —all of this night, just for this moment, when he can press forward, one hand on Charles’ hip, the other holding his own cock, lining himself up against Charles’ spasming hole—still trying to close up, oh, _Charles_ , not such a good idea—  
  
 _Yes_.  
  
Charles shrieks—hell on his ripped throat, clearly, and a bit of blood dribbles out of his mouth—did he bite his cheek, or is it his throat? Whatever, whatever—but Charles pitches forward and then positively _screams_ when he’s jerked up short by his abraded wrists and aching shoulders.  
  
Oh dear, Charles—but he _was_ warned.  
  
Right. Breathe. Give Charles a moment to adjust. That’s—he can do that, can wait. That scream sounded pained, and Charles will need a minute or so to come back from that.  
  
How very much that must have hurt his wrists. All right, then, fine—yes: there’s room for kindness in all of this. Mob boss or not, he _can_ be kind, and he _will_ be kind to Charles. After all, it isn’t as if Charles can be expected to get it right _all_ the time. And the poor thing, sobbing again—god only knows where he’s finding the energy—and obviously in pain: it’s so easy to gather Charles up into his arms, to tug a knife out of his pocket and to flick it open, then reach up and saw through the rope until it snaps and Charles’ arms drop.  
  
Closing up the knife, he pockets it again and finishes lowering Charles down to the floor. So much for planning to put the clamps back on. He _could_ , but by this point it wouldn’t teach much of a lesson. Charles is pretty far gone as it is, and something about this point feels organic—no toys, just he and Charles, and him pressing into Charles in slow, smooth strokes, wandering hands down over his back and sides, leaning into the nape of his neck and his shoulders, biting and licking, trailing kisses in between.  
  
Fuck, it’s good, that sweet, tight heat. That skin, speckled with a smattering of freckles, like miniature kisses scattered all over him. That—  
  
Charles is saying something. Just a whisper, pained snatches of word, ground out from an aching throat. But… “Yuh—yours—yours…”  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
Clever, knowing what to say—damn it, so _tight_ — _gah_ , that heat… But Charles—Charles thinks—is that what he thinks? Saying what he should, that doing so will stop this? Yes, obviously—and it’s the only weapon he has left. If it doesn’t work—then—he probably thinks he has nothing to lose, bless him.  
  
“Yes, my darling,” he murmurs against Charles’ skin. “You _are_ mine. Always. And I’ll take care of you.”  
  
He comes.  
  
All that tight, hot heat, clamping down around him, and the cries, Charles’ delicious skin—there was never a chance that this would last long. He spills hot and fast up inside of Charles, gasping into his shoulder. That skin—too much—and he bites down, grinding his teeth until blood bursts in his mouth and Charles is back to whimpering wordlessly.  
  
How—how very— _beyond words_.  
  
He comes back to himself slowly, only vaguely aware of the silence around him and the liquid rust of blood in his mouth. But, as slow as the going is, he’s quicker than most: a post-coital daze is a good time to get shot, and he’s long since learned to recover quickly. Charles won’t be shooting him, of course—his hands are bound, and there’s no gun in the room—but vulnerability is just… something best avoided. Anyway, why would he want to miss _this_?  
  
 _This_ : Charles, under him, and completely motionless. He’s come… again. That’s obvious from the mess on the ground. Such a wonder, those drugs. It’s tempting to make him go once more, to milk him until he has nothing left and he’s shuddering through dry orgasms. That was originally the plan, but—  
  
Oh, all right. This desire to spoil his boy could end up being problematic, if it gets too out of hand, but it’ll be a delight indulging in it all the same. Charles is unmoving, breathing in short hitches, and there’s no protest left, not in any scrap of his body language. So, why punish the pupil for learning quickly? No, a reward is better earned. A bath, bed, some petting and cuddling, dinner—time, now, to show Charles the best of his new life, and to ease him the rest of the way into it, with pleasant things.  
  
And what a pleasure it will be. This beautiful boy, all his, to love, to spoil, to teach, to _have_. To have and to hold? Normal people don’t really know what that means. They’ll never have something this good, this _perfect_.  
  
Charles is his.  
  
Charles is _his_.  
  
“Mine, darling, yes?” he murmurs, kissing Charles’ cheek. “Say it.”  
  
A tiny shudder, and then, whispered, so softly that it’s barely there—but, oh, it _is_ there, no mistaking it: “Yours.”  
  
Erik smiles. Yes.  
  
 _His._


	5. Epilogue

[Epilogue]  
  
The place is packed tonight. Riding on the high of another government official in his pocket—Senator Kelly will be an asset—it’s difficult not to indulge. Just a little, anyway. Normally, he’d not be quite so lenient, but tonight’s unlucky offender is young, and he might yet be cobbled together into something valuable.  
  
Too bad that second chance comes at the expense of a gunshot wound.  
  
Something of a steep price to pay, but there are far worse things… and there’s a very competent medic on hand. This offending idiot ought to consider himself lucky: he’s going to be stitched up, rather than tossed out to bleed to death, as he deserves. Reneging on a debt. Honestly, today’s youth have no understanding of consequences: if you borrow money, you pay it back. Simple. This is kid is fucking _blessed_ that he’s getting a second chance—and actual medical care to boot.  
  
Speaking of that medic…  
  
“Have you eaten?”  
  
But Charles doesn’t answer. Ah, Charles. Pretty, nervous Charles.  
  
In the four years since that first night, Charles has settled into the space provided for him, learning life with a fumbling, shocked sweetness that melts cotton candy-like onto the senses. Charles, his Charles, his one special indulgence and treasure.  
  
A lesser man might find himself disconcerted by the half-stares leveled at him whenever he dotes on Charles in public, petting and caressing him, kissing his hair and feeding Charles from his own hand. The individuals behind those stares would lose their minds—for more than one reason—if they ever saw Charles in bed, sprawled out over deep blue sheets, toes curled, fingers clenched, as Erik undoes him until Charles can’t recall his own name, let along why it took so long for him to stop shaking.  
  
Because Charles doesn’t. Shake, that is. Not these days. He had for the first year, on and off, perpetually expecting a repeat of the first time they’d had sex. It had been worse after the episode two months into their relationship when Charles had stolen Erik’s credit card, withdrawn three thousand dollars in cash, and had made it as far as the next city over before he’d been picked up. Poor love had counted on ill-will to help him, failing to understand that though that particular city was largely overseen by a rival, said rival was in no hurry to start a full-out war when he could instead have Erik Lehnsherr on the other end of the phone, negotiating for the return of lost property. Disgusting bastard had milked the privilege, god knows. He’s dead for it now, of course—and more so for daring to put Charles on the line as the man smacked him around, working out a dozen little sounds that Charles should never, _never_ have been forced to make at the hand of anyone but Erik. Gutting that man had been like Christmas come early. Pretty good payoff too. Regained everything lost in the original deal—and a good thing that was, since retrieving Charles had cost the use of a key smuggling port: a small enough thing to concede as compensation for Charles’ return, but certainly not something to be spent lightly. And it had been so _grating_ , hearing that pathetic upstart mock him about taking better care of his pets.  
  
No matter. A promise is a promise, when it suits to keep it: Charles was retrieved, and they spent some quality time in the bedroom, making good on the threat of working Charles over with a cane for twice as long and twice as hard as the first time. Mmm, just the memory alone… it had been incendiary, watching Charles unravel. And finally fucking him with the cane itself—now is not the time to think on that, but— _hell,_ it’s too good. Massaging Charles’ prostate over and over until Charles had been coming dry and sobbing out “Sorry” with the same fervency as he would a litany to save his soul….  
  
Priceless.  
  
A room with a few hundred guests isn’t a particularly good place to smile at that memory, not when the waters are primed with sharks and any good nature may as well be akin to blood, but that doesn’t mean _all_ mental indulgence should be discarded: there are safer though-still-related topics. For instance, the gift-giving aspect of their sixth month anniversary. And what a good time it had been, with the privilege of watching Charles when he’d realized the gift was a complete diagram of the Organization’s territorial limits. Everything Erik owned and controlled, curling around Charles’ life snug as a collar, and, finally, after that, had come _understanding_ : it had been so clear, the very moment when Charles had accepted that running would only mean being dragged back to an increasingly worse fate after each infraction.  
  
Two or so months after that, he’d stopped shaking.  
  
And now—how absolutely _stunning_ he has become. A perfect companion; useful; and, at the moment, a comforting warm weight that’s acting unfortunately—though characteristically—recalcitrant. Not a flaw, that quietness, but perhaps not quite healthy either—not at this extreme.  
  
“Well?” he asks again, jostling Charles. “Have you eaten?” This brand of unresponsiveness is disconcerting: shouldn’t be—he’s _Erik Lehnsherr_ , damn it, and it should be harder to unsettle him than _this_ —but… there are memories…  
  
In the couple of weeks after Charles had gotten over his shaking, he’d been little better than a doll, lifeless and uninterested in anything. Didn’t matter what was brought to him: favorite foods, as listed by an old servant of the Xaviers after a little convincing; books; movies; science journals; even a bouquet of flowers. A few days more of that, and—at the time, there had been the possibility of threatening Charles’ mother, if only to gain a reaction. Plus, it might have meant a chance to shoot the old cow in the face.  
  
Charles deserved better than she ever gave him.  
  
Pity that the life seeped back into Charles before shooting her became necessary.  
  
“A little,” Charles murmurs finally, submitting wordlessly to having the back of his neck stroked. Just one finger, over and over, up and down the nape—and there’s the delightful little shiver that Charles can’t quite hide.  
  
He slides one arm down lower on Charles’ hip, tugging him sideways—there, just like that: Charles plops his backside down into the space between Erik’s right thigh and the chair. Legs splayed neatly, bent at the knee. And a little closer—there, tuck his head down, hold him snug and safe. It’s better than good wine, cradling Charles against his shoulder, safe and easily reached, where that soft hair is available to pet at will. All men have their vices—their addictions—though Charles really is more like a virtue, all things considered.  
  
“You,” he barks at a passing waiter. The man goes ramrod straight: if he were asked to go out and kill the meat for the meal himself, he wouldn’t dare refuse. Too right: that’s the whole point of having a gun tucked away, just a hint visible, under one’s jacket. It tends to make people do as they’re told. “Sandwich, make it salmon. Rocket lettuce. Lemon mayonnaise. White bread. And I want it in under ten minutes, understand?”  
  
The man nods frantically, already scuttling away, though not before he allows Erik to snag a glass of champagne off his tray. Ten minutes is nothing, taking into account the catering that went into tonight’s event: the man is lucky the stipulation wasn’t five minutes instead.  
  
“There’s no hurry,” Charles murmurs, soft and resigned and resting against Erik’s chest. He’s practically kissing silk, so closely is his face pressed to the lapels of Erik’s jacket.  
  
 “He’s being paid handsomely: if he can’t handle the pressure, he shouldn’t be receiving the salary.”  
  
“And the alternative?”  
  
“I wouldn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m hardly as bloodthirsty as _that_ , darling.” That’s worth a chuckle, and he good-naturedly chucks Charles under the chin and squeezes his waist. Still so thin.  
  
Charles is thinner than he was when they first met. He can’t seem to keep weight on anymore, which is easily attributable to his tendency to forgo eating unless prompted. So careless, his Charles. And to think he would have tried to move out on his own, off to university. He wouldn’t have lasted a month without someone to pull him away from his beloved textbooks and remind him to eat.  
  
“Here, have some of this.”  
  
Charles balks when the glass is tipped to his lips, mouth straining hard and thin. Such a shame: the tension drains all the natural color. “It’ll go to my head,” he protests, turning his face away from the glass.  
  
Exactly. Charles will need that calm in a few minutes, once that certain unlucky individual finds himself sporting an extra hole in his body. A good chance for Charles to practice his skills, though: all that biology, but Charles is so disinclined to pass from the theoretical into the practical. Still, he’s talented enough to competently complete the jobs he’s required to do: he can sew up wounds, set bones, pop joints back into place. At this point, if he wants to finish out his biology degree and move on to graduate classes in genetics, then so be it, if it makes him happy. Charles is—is—it’s those rare smiles of his that tip the balance. Damnably addictive, that’s what they are. And Charles _is_ so especially fond of genetics.  
  
“You’ll still be a damn sight more stable than most everyone else here, love. _Drink_.”  
  
Good boy. Almost no resistance now, once he gets going: he swallows and hardly appears to register Erik’s hand as it slinks lower, finding a home on the inside of Charles’ thigh. Three swallows later, and the drink is gone. Excellent. That’ll calm him down nicely, force those tight lines of muscle to relax. Taking him apart in bed would be the best remedy, but that’ll have to wait at least until after—  
  
Ah. There it is.  
  
A couple of sharp screams, but most of the people here are familiar with this kind of scene. It’s only those few, newly inducted, here hanging on the arm of a date or a spouse, who are even remotely horrified. Granted, the rest are interested, turning toward the source of the sound, but it’s more a hope for the entertainment portion of dinner and a show.  
  
And Charles. Charles flinches too, squeaking—not in terror, but Charles has never managed to become accustomed to the sound of gunfire. He’s gotten better, but… some things simply aren’t meant to be.  
  
“Didn’t pay his debt, that one.” Pity the timing interrupted a good drink: he sets the glass down, clinking it onto the surface of a side table. Someone will be along to collect it eventually.  
  
“Erik…”  
  
Such a bleeding heart, his boy. Look at him _care_ , eyes wide and enraptured as he stares across the room at the fallen man—he can’t be much older than Charles, five years, give or take—as he squirms on the floor, hand shoved down against the gunshot wound. He’s moaning something awful, locking his eyes onto the mess of red leaking out from under his palm.  
  
Beside him, Azazel thumbs the safety on his gun and slips it back into the holster at his hip. “A good shot,” he comments to the crowd around him, sounding honestly pleased—more so when the woman nearest him flinches at the sight of his grin.  
  
Indeed it _is_ a good shot. A clean through and through, into the meat of the man’s leg. Nothing vital appears to be hit—but, then, that was the order, and Azazel is _such_ a model employee.  
  
“Well, my darling? Would you like to fix him?”  
  
Charles is nodding frantically even before the sentence is finished. Already he’s leaning forward, angling toward the injured man. He knows better than to pull away before he’s been released, but he’s eagerly poised to spring as soon as he’s given leave.  
  
All right, since he clearly wants it so badly….  
  
A picture of grace, is Charles. He practically pours himself onto his feet once the hold around his waist loosens, and he skids forward across the room to where the man has fallen. He does of course wait until Azazel has handed him a bag of medical supplies, complete with gloves that Charles grabs up and snaps immediately onto his hands. Blood is deceptive that way: it’s the ultimate vulnerability. The person losing it is dying, but it’s also a final revenge, causing harm from beyond the grave if the victim has any blood borne diseases.  
  
Charles has learned very well to always take care with himself, and never to risk his own well-being. The one time he tried, it had been a matter of shooting the patient through the head to get the point across. If Charles doesn’t put himself first, then the patient will be eliminated, and it won’t matter at all how quickly he was able to provide assistance. Simple as that.  
  
Watching Charles, Erik languidly pushes himself up as well, sauntering across the room to stand amongst the circle of onlookers, observing as Charles presses down on the wound to staunch the bleeding. The man cries out at the pressure, squirming, but Charles soothes him aptly, murmuring soft little assurances that seem to work on wounded animals and people alike.  
  
It’s how they ended up with a damned cat, after all.  
  
Still, though, not bad at all—and not particularly exciting for a Friday night. Charles will have the man patched up in a few minutes, and then he’ll be carted away to rest—under the Organization’s watchful eye, naturally, as they’re hardly about to begin allowing wounded defaulters to run amok and fill the police’s ears with their tales of woe—and Charles will return to Erik, weary but high on adrenaline.  
  
And so it goes: it can’t be more than five minutes later that Charles finishes up. When Azazel and Toynbee toss the wounded man’s arms over their shoulders and drag him away, Charles is left on his knees, bloody hands out in front of him, peering worriedly after his patient. Honestly, _such_ a soft touch: the world would have torn Charles up if Erik hadn’t gotten there first and provided him with shelter.  
  
Even now, the eyes of the onlookers are already straying toward Charles, taking his measure, and possibly preparing to pick him apart. Or they _would_ , if they weren’t also very aware that it would mean _their_ death if they were to harm Charles. It doesn’t stop them from looking, unfortunately. Worse too, because if Charles realizes that he’s the center of attention, he won’t meet that revelation with much grace.  
  
Charles once mentioned something about worrying that being a spectacle meant he was marking the onlookers for harm. He never quite seems to stop conceiving of such dreadfully pessimistic—and not entirely untrue—concepts.  
  
“Up you get, then,” he tells Charles after a minute or so. Long enough, anyway, for Charles to get over a little of his initial shock.  
  
Startled out of his hundred-yard stare, Charles strips the gloves off his hands, meticulously turning them inside out without so much as grazing the edges with bare skin, and finally dropping them to the floor by the medical bag. Someone else will sterilize the area for him, and, for now, he’s left to totter back up onto his feet, accepting an arm around his waist, drawing him away from the remnants of the carnage.  
  
“That sandwich ought to be there by now.” Charles will need the sustenance to gain back a little of his strength. Though, he’s hiding his fatigue well by acknowledging that it’s there and finding a way to circumvent it: he accepts an arm around his waist without even a flinch. There’s not a tremor in any of Charles’ limbs. Good. The first time Charles did this, most of the evening was spent rubbing Charles’ back, first while he vomited into a toilet, and later while he lay in bed shaking.  
  
The crowd closes back in behind them as they move off to the side of the room. Whispers follow—as they should. Charles may detest being the center of attention, but this kind of regard is a refined offering: it’s power, if used right. That’s not to say that these people are _owed_ a show, but, if it’s convenient, it’s no trouble to give them one. So: back to the chair? Though, they ought to actually mingle with the guests. Potentially Charles could take the food with him, and—  
  
“Erik?”  
  
It’s rare that Charles speaks without prompting, and rarer still that he actively tries to draw Erik’s attention. Silly little thing: he ought to know by now that he’ll never be punished for wanting the consideration that is already his due. An empire—Genosha—is one thing, but Charles will always be the heart of the matter. His sweet boy, the one pure thing in a life of dirty hands.  
  
“Mmhmm?” he rumbles, pressing a hand to Charles’ back and snagging the sandwich from the dumbstruck waiter as they move toward—yes, it’ll have to be the chair. Charles needs to sit and eat. He’s still too thin, but—his appetite is far from what it should be, and it’s because of _this_ , the way he glances at food and then seems to shrink back from it. Sometimes he’ll take a bite, but he’ll chew and chew and chew, never quite swallowing. “Take a bite, Charles.”  
  
Charles does. And—those lips. But at least if Charles has nothing to say, he’ll put that mouth to good use—not the _best_ use, but they have time enough later—and finish chewing before getting along to whatever he wants to convey.  
  
“There, now.” Once Charles has swallowed, Erik brushes his cheek and grins. That draws a few stares, but most of the regulars are used to it, and those that aren’t—it’s a fine show, him and Charles. Those that haven’t seen it are bound to wonder, to want more.  
  
They’ll _never_ get more. If they try, the only thing they’ll get is a place at the bottom of the river.  
  
“Do you need me any longer tonight?”  
  
What an odd question. “I always need you, Charles. You know that.” It might be a bit much to frown as deeply as he is in response to that, but, honestly, Charles ought to know better by now than to ask such questions.  
  
“I want to go home to bed.”  
  
Charles has made no secret of the fact that he detests these parties, but that doesn’t change reality: these events are necessary, and Charles’ presence at them is important. Being king of an empire is one thing, but what good would it be if no one understood which parts of his life are not to be trifled with? It is crucial that people understand that Charles is off-limits—and for that to happen, Charles must be present.  
  
But… he does look drained. “Are you all right?”  
  
Curving a gentle hand to Charles’ cheek, he drops his other to his waist and settles more firmly back into the chair, drawing Charles along with him. Good cushion, firm armrests, strong back—all made to allow a man to fold back into the seat with an air of grace. Charles follows obediently, though his eyes cast about to the side, flickering over the men and women milling about.  
  
“I—he’s going to need care,” Charles murmurs. “I should—“  
  
He should congratulate himself on a job well done and be content to hand the remains of the job off to another. But Charles has never been particularly good at delegating, and, even if he were, his mind is on other things: his gaze continues skipping over faces, dragging blurrily from one to another without seeing much of anything at all.  
  
Hmm. Though their presence may be necessary for a little longer tonight, once this is done, it may be time to take Charles away for a few days. Go somewhere nice with him. Maybe somewhere tropical: a private beach where Charles can indulge his scientific curiosity by poking at the animals in the tidal pools and mumbling excitedly under his breath as he scribbles down notes on the little pad that he perpetually carries. And, later, once Charles has mapped out the wildlife to his satisfaction, they’ll return to the beach house, and Erik can map _Charles_. It’s been far too long since he’s had the pleasure of examining every inch of Charles’ body with his tongue—an egregious oversight that ought to be rectified as soon as Azazel can make the arrangements for a trip that will allow a few days of leisure.  
  
“Erik, please, I want to—“  
  
“You worry too much, darling.” Malibu? Or perhaps somewhere more foreign. Cyprus is supposed to be lovely this time of year. “You know very well that he’ll be looked after.”  
  
That wasn’t meant to be a hollow reassurance, but somehow Charles appears to be disengaging from his settings more and more as the seconds tick away, ignoring both the truth behind words and the solidness of his surroundings.  
  
“ _Please_ , Erik—“  
  
Charles _must_ know the effects of begging like that. Charles is a sweet boy, yes, but he’s also dangerously clever, and—well, everyone manipulates others at some point or another. Even Charles, good as he is, isn’t a saint: he’ll play the right cards to get what he wants, good intentions or not.  
  
Case in point: the fact that they’ve hired a nurse is a testament to Charles’ ability to craft a guilt trip. An on-call doctor ought to have been plenty, but, no, Charles wants anyone who is injured to be _comfortable_ —and he’d be so pleased with the choice of new employee. Now might be a decent time to share that, actually. It was meant to be a surprise, but—now is as good a moment as any.  
  
“We’ve hired someone to tend to cases like this.” A few more minutes, and they’ll have made a sufficiently long appearance: this goodwill offering might just put Charles in a humor to accommodate a night in, just the two of them, once they’re done here. But, for now, the best thing for Charles is to curl back up and wait this out—and there is no safer place for Charles than on Erik’s lap. They’ll both lean back in the chair, wait out of the aftermath of the shooting. Let it really _sink_ in—make sure these people know precisely whom they’re considering crossing. Because they all are. If the price weren’t their lives, they’d descend like piranhas on flesh. “You’ll be pleased with the choice, I would think: she’s a younger girl—a few years younger than you—who was hard up for cash and trying to get a job as one of our carriers in order to meet rent.”  
  
She might have been useful in other ways: young, Azazel had said, with a pretty face—pretty enough, and with a sufficiently respectable façade, to ensure that she could have moved the guns in question with relatively few questions asked. Girls like that are a dime a dozen, though, and when she’d mentioned that she’d nursed the sick before, and offered her services that way too, there was no question where she’d be more useful. Of course, Azazel also mentioned that she’d offered just about every service there is. _Desperate_ , he’d said. Willing to do anything to enter their organization—and no wonder, since the background check turned up a couple of shitty parents that kicked her out as a child. Library cards suggest she stayed in the area, but there’s no record of any doctors’ appointments or schooling, which makes sense if she was running about the streets. That she had a library card at all is a bit strange, but she _did_ have the time, and there’s no accounting for hobbies. Goodness knows, if _Charles_ were homeless he’d certainly still go for a library card.  
  
“The things I do because of you, _libeling_.” Charles doesn’t protest being tugged down and gathered up even more closely, but, with the ease of long practice, arranges himself once again with his weight resting against Erik’s chest. “She’ll change their sheets, mop their brows—no need for you to be there holding their hands, hmm?”  
  
 A soft, sharp little exhale of breath—might just drive him mad, feeling Charles this close, being tickled by the boy’s breath. Fuck. Beautiful boy. Boring party, now that the main event has passed. All these worthless faces watching Charles tuck his head down and try to hide.  
  
Right, then: there’s no hope of concentrating on anything but Charles at this point. Looks like business will simply have to be concluded for the night, because this level of distraction? It equals carelessness and mistakes—and, in this business, mistakes aren’t affordable.  
  
“Who is she?” Charles asks quietly, breathing out the question against Erik’s lapel.  
  
Yes, because Charles is always so terribly worried about whether or not an employee comes from a vulnerable situation. Most everyone does, but Charles has a liking for the youngest ones, those from broken homes, whom he seems to regard as most in need of his incessant mothering. It’s fine. If it makes him happy, there’s no harm in letting him teach classes for the teenagers a few times a week, or offer to babysit for a single mother every once in a while.  
  
“No one important. Young, single, no children. Abandoned by her parents at a young age, and now with no family involved. Foreign name—Darkholme, I think it was—so maybe there’s someone overseas, but no one to speak of, and—Charles?”  
  
It’s simple information, but, upon hearing it Charles locks his body down, pulling all his muscles in tight: each hand now grips the opposite elbow, creating a self-hug and crushing his own chest, although it hardly matters, when he isn’t bothering to hide the fact that he’s stopped breathing.  
  
“Charles?” A light shake doesn’t do anything to rouse him, but—ah, and there he goes: Charles’ shudders out the breath he’d been holding and leans into the hand hovering over his cheek.  
  
“You’re taking girls from overseas now?” he asks, voice stilted and mechanical. Strange, since Charles hardly ever sounds so fake, but, granted, this _is_ a new issue, and it may be this is simply how he reacts to the possibility of human trafficking.  
  
It’s actually rather nice, being able to finally reassure Charles that, for once, his worry is for nothing.  
  
“Not what I said, little love,” he answers, patting Charles’ cheek. There’s a hint of stubble there: might be that he needs a shave before tonight’s further activities. “I deal in weaponry, not in people. You know this.”  
  
Another shaky exhale. A few of the people closest by in the room have stopped their own conversations and are shamelessly listening in; the more intelligent guests have begun to drift away. Curiosity makes people’s fortunes, but, hear the wrong thing, and it can also end a life. Anyone with any sense knows by now that what Charles hears may not be for public consumption, and if a conversation with Charles turns to more weighty matters, the safest bet is to move away without acknowledging that anything has been overheard.  
  
That’s not to say that anything confidential will pass between himself and Charles when they’re in a public space, but… unfortunately there _was_ that one instance early on where Charles hoped that letting slip a snippet of information in a public place would lead to… god only knows what he’d thought it would lead to, actually. Charles had never been clear on that. Probably something along the lines of thinking the information would end up passed on to the police, or that one of the guests would endeavor to help him. Wrong on all counts, and Charles had learned that quite quickly when Azazel had been given orders to detain the woman who’d heard the information. Charles had been screaming for clemency by the end of the night. Such hysterics: the woman had walked away with nothing more than a few bruises and a broken finger, but with the way Charles had carried on, one would have thought she’d been shot dead.  
  
Past memories ought not to be held so firmly against Charles, though. Just look at how well behaved he is _now_ , sweetly nodding his assent against the stiff seam of the jacket under his face. “I know,” he offers, bumping his forehead against the stitching and relaxing into a light touch to the jut of his jawline. But… _does_ he know? He sounds awfully shaky. “I—could I meet her?”  
  
 _Meet_ her? Charles never seeks out of the company of strangers these days. “Whatever for, darling?” No need to disagree reflexively, though, no matter how odd the proposition sounds: Charles will have a reason, and he deserves to be heard.  
  
“Just… I want to make sure she knows what she’s doing.”  
  
Is _that_ all? Charles startles at the chuckle that prompts, but, really, Charles shouldn’t be surprised: dear, darling Charles, who worries so fervently about people who ought to be beneath his notice. But if Charles wants to inspect the standard of the Organization’s health care—if it will please him—then there’s no reason not to indulge him.  
  
“There’s really no need, little love.” Charles—always so serious, holding perfectly still under the hand that the bridge of his nose. Just one finger, up and down, up and down. “But, if it would make you happy, I’ll have Azazel take you about this week, hmm?”  
  
A person would think he’s just passed the sentence between life and death, the way Charles’ shoulders droop. And another strangled wisp of breath to boot, though Charles submits well enough to having a kiss dropped to his forehead. “Yes,” Charles murmurs. “Thank you.”  
  
Yes, certainly—and why not? After all, Charles is _his_ : to love, to discipline, to have and to hold, to spoil and indulge, and everything else in between. Letting him play about with assessing the competency of lower level staff is such a little thing, and pleasing Charles is—it’s addicting, no two ways around it.  
  
“No trouble,” he rumbles out against the side of Charles’ neck. The skin there is slightly clammy with sweat, and if not for the eyes that continue to linger, there would be nothing impeding the prospect of licking that skin into a better state. “My spoiled boy.”  
  
But—Charles. Fuck, Charles spoils _him_ too, with every look, every glance. So long now since that first night, and Charles has become everything he was meant to be. _This_ is the perfection of never having to fear betrayal; of always having a lover to come home to; and in perpetually knowing that Charles will turn his face up for a kiss when asked, and that he will shiver himself apart in bed, drowning himself in the most delightful little moans, all at Erik’s behest.  
  
 _This_ is the power that matters. Not running a city. Not watching subordinates scramble. No _._  
  
It is _having Charles._  
  
Funny, but… knowing Charles, and knowing how well this life becomes him—let him see that nurse if he wants. Hobbies like that are small concessions to be made in the scheme of everything else.  
  
And why? Also a simple thing, easy to think on, and easier still to internalize: where it counts, Charles will always be Erik’s _._ It’s only right to treat Charles with the due station that affords him.  
  
Charles—beautiful, lovely Charles—is _his._  
  
“My darling boy,” he teases, hooking a finger under Charles’ chin.  
  
And, as always, Charles offers up his mouth for a kiss.

  
  



End file.
